


La Geste du Beau Trouvé

by Clarounette



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arthurian, F/M, M/M, Middle Ages, Minor Character Death, Powered Alternate Universe, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarounette/pseuds/Clarounette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><span class="lines">In a powered Arthurian AU, Gifted are persecuted.</span><br/>The Great Wizard Shaw puts Gifted Charles on the throne, so Gifted will become the dominant species once he finds the Grail, and sends Gifted Erik to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the X-Men Fairy Tales challenge.
> 
> I tried to keep as much as both Arthurian and X-Men worlds as I could.  
> You'll also find politics, military strategy and Middle Ages way of life.
> 
> Sorry for the short length of the prologue. And updates will be sporadic.
> 
> Thanks to [luninosity](http://luninosity.livejournal.com/) for betaing it. All remaining mistakes are mine.

 

_Jadis en la terre de Bretagne prospère_

_Naquit un enfant doué du pouvoir sur le fer._

_Erik est son prénom, et pour Shaw l’Enchanteur,_

_Il doit mener les Doués et laver leur honneur._

_Elevé par Emma, blanche Dame du Lac,_

_Et aidé de Charles, le vertueux monarque,_

_Il part à l’aventure, en quête du Saint Graal,_

_Pour conjurer le sort, atteindre un idéal,_

_Et libérer les Doués du joug de ces messires._

_Mais est-ce vraiment là son ultime désir ?_ (translation in the end notes)

.

.

.

It was a time of ignorance and fear for Britain. It was a time of monsters and magic.

But that time was nearing the end. And the Mighty Wizard Shaw had a role to play.

 

 

*****

 

Shaw was still a little boy when he discovered he had a gift.

 

He lived alone with his poor mother in a small house at the end of the village, and did not know who his father was. No one knew. When someone asked his mother, she would tell a story about a demon who took her in her sleep and left her with a baby boy. They would laugh and leave; sometimes a mean peasant would even slap her and tell her to stop lying.

Now, years later, he believed her.

 

His mother and he were despised in the village because of their situation. So when Shaw was outside playing alone, a group of older boys would often join him, and soon they were beating him. But it never hurt. He could not let them know, but the fists punching his face and his back caused no pain, no wound. On the contrary, they gave him strength. Each time one of the bully let his hand fall, he could feel a surge of power inside of him, burning his core, clearing his sight. He felt like he would soon explode.

It never happened though. He would lie there, crying fake tears, while the snickering group was dissolving. When he was finally alone, he would sneak in the forest and break as many trees as he could with his little fists, until his strength left him. Villagers thought there was a terrible bear in the forest. No one could know about his gift, not even his mother.

 

One day – he was twelve – his mother was smacked again, and this time a huge purple bruise marred her tired face. He knelt before her.

“Mother, I promise I will change the world for you and you will never be beaten again.”

“You silly boy,” she sighed. A smile peeked through her tear-stained face. She took him in her arms and hugged him fiercely.

But he made the same promise to himself: he would use his gift and make the world better for his mother.

 

When she died, two years later, he lost his purpose.

 

 

*****

 

He was already old when he joined King Xavier’s court. Grey strands of hair were showing on his temples and years had drawn deep crevices on his face. He was still handsome enough to charm anyone into agreeing with his schemes.

Once in front of the King, he showed his gift. He asked to confront the best warrior of the King’s court, and reduced him to pulp after the first blow with a simple punch in his face. His strength still at its top, Shaw broke the man’s sword with bare hands in a flash of lightning. He was rewarded with the title of Great Wizard.

It was not a selfless act though. The King needed his help to seduce a married woman, Duchess Sharon. Xavier was good looking and good natured, and his position as King of Britain was enticing, but the Duchess was faithful.

Shaw’s power was useless in this case and he did not know how to succeed.

 

He wandered in the forest, lost in his thoughts, until he reached a lake. The glittering still surface reflected the sky above and the green leaves of the trees around. It was quiet. Shaw sat on a stone, thoughtful.

He started when a hand touched his shoulder. He turned around and met with a beautiful lady. She was dressed in pure white cloth and her blonde hair was shining under the summer sun. She looked like an angel.

“Thank you, but I am very much human.” Her radiant smile brightened her delicate features.

“Who are you, unearthly creature?” Shaw asked.  
 _‘I told you I am no angel, Shaw,’_ he heard in his head. It was impossible. How could she do that? How did she know his name?

“I am like you,” she answered aloud. “I have a gift.” And she turned into a crystal ghost, sparkling more than the surface of the lake.

“It is diamond, dear.” She smiled and added: “We are not the only ones, Shaw. I saw Gifted everywhere.”

 

They talked a lot. Emma – that was her name – told him about her encounters with other gifted people. Some of them had a very physical gift and served as monsters in mazes or destroyed entire villages, bringing the wrath of humans on them, even when they were ordered by other humans. Others were deemed magical and became wizards or sorceresses, like Shaw. A few Gifted lived as hermits, afraid of their gift or of humans’ reaction to it.

But in each and every case, they were lesser human beings. Even powerful magicians were only advisors for Kings and Dukes. When one of them proclaimed himself independent, soon a horde of knights would come and defeat him.

Shaw’s blood was boiling. He had promised to change the world for his mother; he could still do it for himself and the other Gifted. But he had one problem to solve first.

“I have to help King Xavier in seducing Duchess Sharon, but I cannot use my gift to make it happen,” he complained.

“I can help you,” Emma said. “I can give the King the likeness of Sharon’s husband, Duke Marko. And Xavier would not even know I was there with you.”

 

Shaw thanked her exceedingly.

They did as they had said. King Xavier shared the bed of Duchess Sharon.

That night, Charles Xavier was conceived.

 

When Shaw went back to the lake with Emma, she locked him up in an invisible tower where she would keep him until the end of time. The Mighty Wizard Shaw had become the prisoner of the Lady of the Lake.


	2. The Great Wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [luninosity](http://luninosity.livejournal.com/) for betaing it. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Emma had been alone most of her life. She looked like a human; she should not have to hide. But she had heard the minds of people: ignorance, pain, fear, anger. It was troubling, bothering. She hated it. At least, as a hermit, she was far away from all those intrusive minds.

 

But living alone could be trickery as well. She longed for company. She wanted – she needed – to have someone to support her, to comfort her. She traveled the land of Britain, North to South, East to West, to find that special someone. She only met with more suffering and rage.

Britain was not a land of peace and happiness. The Kingdom was continuously under attack. Saxons, Romans, everyone wanted a piece of Britain. And King Xavier could only do so much to prevent invasion.

Citizens and slaves alike suffered from the never-ending war. Battles and death were their lot.

 

And then she met with Shaw.

She felt his mind. A focused mind, sharp like a knife, untamed and potentially dangerous. And she believed he could save her; he could save all the Gifted she had found. He could save Britain.

She had created a prodigious device just for him. It would connect him with her gift and amplify it.

She just had to keep him in her tower by the lake.

 

*****

 

In his invisible prison, the Mighty Wizard Shaw reached every mind in Britain, humans or Gifted. He could feel their powers, use them. Thanks to all those bright souls, he could sense and control the weather, create fire or ice out of nothing, talk to the trees or go through walls at will. He could also see the past and the futures. All the futures.

But only one future interested him. A future where the Gifted led Britain. Led the world.

He would make that happen, whatever it took.

 

*****

 

He was there when Sharon gave birth to Charles, floating from servant’s spirit to midwife’s eyes. He already knew the baby was King Xavier’s son. He knew Charles was a Gifted, a mind-reader like Emma but much more powerful.

He knew what he had to do.

 

 _‘Sweet Lady of the Lake, you have seen what I have seen,’_ he projected from inside the tower.

 _‘Yes, Shaw, I have seen it,’_ she answered truthfully.

_‘You have heard what I have heard.’_

_‘Yes, Shaw, I have heard it.’_

_‘You know what I know.’_

At that, Emma hesitated a second. She knew, alright, she knew. But she was afraid of what she knew, of what Shaw was planning to do. But she had no other choice. The safety of her kind was at stake.

 _‘Yes,’_ she said weakly. She had answered and that seemed good enough for Shaw, whatever the tone of her mental voice.

 _‘So you will do what you have to do.'_ It was not an order. Shaw did not need to give an order for what was eventually going to happen.

Emma sighed. She retrieved the tower’s key and opened the door. Where there was nothing before, nothing but thin air and subdued light in the undergrowth, there was now a dark hole. In the doorway Shaw stood.

He smiled, took her hand and kissed it.

“Come with me. I need you.”

 _‘I need your gift,’_ she heard in his mind.

And they left.

 

*****

 

It took them three days to reach King Xavier’s territory.

They stopped in a grove a few miles away from the castle. Shaw turned to Emma. “I shall go alone. Xavier doesn’t know you exist.”

Emma understood and agreed. He left her in the wood, walking steadily towards the fortress.

 

At the door, a guard stopped him. “What is your affair with the King, old man?”

“I am the Great Wizard Shaw and I wish to speak with King Xavier,” he said.

The guard, who knew who Shaw was, let him through.

 

In the throne room, a moody King Xavier welcomed him.

“What keeps your spirit down, my Lord?” Shaw asked.

“Picts and Saxons are relentlessly attacking Britain in the North. Hadrian’s Wall will not hold them much longer.”

Knowing what the future of the country was, Shaw smirked. “I assure you, Your Majesty, Britain will remain as it is now for a long time, and neither Picts nor Saxons will set foot on your holy land.” He then knelt in front of the King. “My Lord, I came here to speak about matters of great importance.”

Interested, the King leaned over his throne. “I always trusted you, and you never disappointed me. Tell me, Great Wizard, and I shall listen.”

Shaw got up and stared at King Xavier with unwavering eyes. “Your son is born.”

King Xavier frowned. “Surely you are delusional, Shaw. I have no wife therefore I have no child.”

Shaw knew he was about to lay the foundations of his dream. It was the beginning of the end for humans.

“My Lord, when you slept with Duchess Sharon, a child was conceived. A great destiny awaits him. He will be remembered and loved for a thousand years. But for his fate to be fulfilled, I shall take the newborn away from his mother, and entrust him to someone you do not know. You will never see the child, and he will not know who his parents are until you are both dead.”

He delivered his lines resolutely and with confidence.

 

The news caught King Xavier flatfooted, his joy of having a son wiped out by the fact that he will never meet him. Resigned, he said: “I shall do as you wish, Great Wizard, although my heart is in pain.”

“Do console yourself with the knowledge that your son will be King. He will find the Holy Grail and bring peace on Britain.”

Suddenly Shaw’s face became somber, and through the high windows, King Xavier saw dark clouds crawling before the sun, obscuring the sky, like a bad omen.

“But you, King Xavier, will not be able to achieve your goals. Your sole purpose is to prepare the place for your son.”

The King gasped. Being told that he was useless was utterly painful. But he was a good king, and if Britain’s happiness demanded for him to withdraw, he would do it.

“Tell me what Destiny has chosen for me, Great Wizard.”

Shaw’s face brightened. The bait had been taken.

“You shall build a magnificent castle, a symbol for chivalry and courage, and call it Westchester. The best knights will gather in its hall, and in a hundred years from now it will still be admired.”

“I shall do as you wish, Great Wizard,” King Xavier nodded, sadly.

“And you shall create a Round Table. Every knights sitting at that table will be equals, and only the best will be invited.”

“I shall do as you wish, Great Wizard.”

Shaw then knelt, saluted respectfully, and before the King could stop him, he was already gone.

 

*****

 

After he picked up Emma in the grove, they walked for two more days until they reached Duke Marko’s castle.

Tintagel, the fortress of Duke Marko, was set on a high cliff, its dark grey walls looking down on the green water of the ocean. The path to its entrance promised certain death to the careless traveler, but Shaw knew its dangers and how to avoid them. He and Emma climbed the perilous road to the portcullis without fear.

 

Shaw’s reputation as King Xavier’s first advisor was well known in Britain.

When he and Emma showed at the door, his sole name was enough to grant him access to the Duke’s private apartments.

Once in the place, the Lady of the Lake used her gift to freeze every man and woman, servants or guests, and the Duke. They walked to the nursery, where newborn Charles was sleeping in his crib. Next to it, Duchess Sharon was sewing by candlelight. The lady was beautiful, with long blond hair and big blue eyes. It was no wonder King Xavier had fallen in love with her.

She started at Emma and Shaw’s sudden appearance.

“Who are you? Why were you not announced?” she asked, angry and afraid at the same time.

The mixed feelings felt like honey for Emma and made her smile.

“My name is Shaw, Great Wizard of King Xavier, and I am here to take your child.”

Sharon’s motherly instincts urged her to reach the crib that she seized with shaking hands. “I know who you are, Great Wizard, and it is said that you are the son of a demon.” She wore her defiance like a suit of armor. The hint of fear had disappeared from her eyes, where rage was now burning in bright blue flames.

 

Shaw didn’t deign to reply to her.

“This boy is King Xavier’s heir, and I shall take care of him.” He nodded towards Emma, who froze Duchess Sharon, before forcing her to move back.

Shaw approached the crib and took the baby in his arms. “Little Charles, I will make you a king, and you will use your power to give the world to the Gifted. You will do what you must,” he whispered to the baby. Then he kissed Charles soundly.

He turned to Sharon and said: “This is what happened: your son was stillborn. Do not worry, everybody will believe you.”

He waved to Emma who understood it was time to leave. As Shaw headed outside, she concentrated on everyone’s mind and rearranged their memories. From now on, Duke Marko and his family, plus every servant and every guest that was here at the moment, would believe that Charles was already dead when his mother gave birth to him. Only Duchess Sharon would know the truth, but she will never tell.

Charles Xavier, the crown’s heir, was now for Shaw to do with as it pleased him.

 

*****

 

In a village far away from both Xavier’s fortress and Duke Marko’s castle, Shaw and Emma spent the night in an inn. The building was old and creepy, but the food was good and the beds warm.

Just outside the village lived a man and his wife. They sadly couldn’t have a child of their own: the woman was barren.

When morning came, Shaw was at their door and knocked. The man, Antor, opened. He frowned at the sight of the old man in dark blue robes.

“What can I do to help you, sir?” he asked, curious of the bundle of cloths the Wizard was holding against his chest.

Shaw noticed Antor’s interest and smiled. He used all the charm he was capable of. “You should ask how _I_ can help _you_ , Antor.”

Despite Shaw’s amiable look, Antor stared at him, suspicion written on his face. The use of the man’s name had been a bold move, but Shaw needed to show his magical nature – as humans deemed him.

“The Almighty God refused you the gift of a child, Antor, but I can fulfill your dream. Will you hear me out?”

 

Antor had let him in and they were both sitting at the table in the small room. A narrow bed was standing in the corner, near the fireplace. Kitchenware was aligned on a shelf. It was a humble home.

Both men were using the only two chairs, and Antor’s wife stood near her husband, quiet but restless.

Shaw opened the cloths in his arms. Charles stared at Antor with large blue eyes. With fair skin, rosy lips and a small stature, he looked like a doll. “This is Charles. I want you to take care of him. He is of glorious lineage but I entrust him to you,” he said as he held the baby out to Antor.

His wife lunged forward and took Charles. Soon she was weeping, looking at the peaceful face of the baby as if it was the face of an angel. Maybe it was for her.

But Shaw did not care for those humans’ feelings. He had a goal, a purpose. It was just lucky for Antor’s wife that his plan and her happiness met.

 

“There is, however, one condition,” Shaw added seriously, a hint of anger in his voice promising wrath in retaliation for disobedience.

The man and his wife tensed up. “Do tell, stranger,” Antor replied with a grave tone.

“When Charles is fourteen, I shall come and take him back, and you will not see him again for many years. This is my only condition.” He waited patiently for their answer.

Husband and wife looked at each other, conversing silently. Then the woman looked at Charles, kissed the baby’s cheek and nodded at her husband.

Antor finally agreed. “We will do as you say, stranger. We will take good care of him.”

“I have no doubt,” Shaw said.

He put a little purse filled with golden coins on the table. After a quick bow, he left the house.

 

The first part of his plan was a success, but Shaw had another meeting with Fate.

 

*****

 

For many days, the Mighty Wizard Shaw and the Lady of the Lake visited many places, Emma bringing Shaw where she had met with Gifted before.

Not a man of great empathy, he decided against meeting with them. He just needed to see them from afar. He did not want to make promises, even though he was sure he would keep them. He thought appearing when humans had been exterminated, as the one who saved Gifted people from oppression, would be much more rewarding.

A look at Emma, who stood quietly at his side, told him she had heard his stray thought. That was unnerving.

The smile she had shown until now disappeared suddenly. “I am sorry, Mighty Shaw. I will not read your mind again if you do not want me to.”

“Please do, my mind is mine only to listen to.” The cold fingers that had been crawling in his mind vanished.

He would have to find how to keep it that way.

 

*****

 

After a two week travel, they finally arrived where the next stage of Shaw’s plan would take place.

 

The land was the property of a generous King. Lehnsherr was a good sovereign, and Lady Lehnsherr helped the poor and the sick when needed.

They had been blessed with a son, Erik. He was very much loved and the first and second anniversaries of the little boy had been celebrated by every citizen with joy and many festivities.

But King Lehnsherr was threatened by Claudas, a vain and vile Duke envious of his prosperous land and who started a war to take the King’s crown.

King Lehnsherr was old and impaired. His seneschals had decided to send the King and his family in exile to save them and protect them, while they fought against Claudas’ army.

That was why King Lehnsherr, Lady Lehnsherr and little Erik were on the road to a distant castle owned by the King’s cousin.

 

They had been on horses’ backs for several hours when they reached a deep forest. The undergrowth was dark and scary, as if a monster was hiding behind the bushes and they could hear his filthy breath. It smelled of decay and evil. But they needed to go through it.

Erik was in his mother’s arms, gripping her dress. He started wailing. Nothing could calm him.

They hit a junction. One road led to a clearing bathed in the sun, the other offered a darker path. Judging they needed some rest, and Erik would quiet in a much brightened atmosphere, King Lehnsherr took the sunny road, followed by his wife.

They dismounted in the clearing, and Lady Lehnsherr tenderly cradled her little boy.

Erik was almost asleep when Shaw and Emma joined them. “Good day, King Lehnsherr. Good day, Lady Lehnsherr,” the Great Wizard said with a small bow. Emma did an elegant curtsey.

“Good day to you too, sir,” the King politely replied. But sensing danger, he discretely put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “It is a strange event to meet someone in a remote place like this forest. Especially someone who knows who I am.”

“It is for you, certainly. It is not for me as I was waiting for you.”

King Lehnsherr stood between Shaw and his wife, and raised his sword. “I do not know your intentions, sir, but I will not let you harm my family.” And he brought down his blade on Shaw’s head.

The sword did not slice through the wizard, but with the hit, Shaw felt a surge of power in his body, reverberating through his nerves, sending sparkles of pure energy. He whacked the King without applying too much force. But Lehnsherr literally flew across the clearing, hitting a tree before landing on the ground. Blood started dripping from his ears, his nose and his mouth. He was still breathing, but barely.

Shaw revealed in his power. The blow had been so satisfying, as he heard bones cracking and flesh ripping. And he had still so much energy that his fingers and toes were tingling.

 

When she saw the King on the ground, Lady Lehnsherr shouted her husband’s name: “Jakob!” with worry in her voice and tried to reach him. But Emma froze her, with her right arm stretched and Erik still cradled in the other.

Shaw came and took the infant. Erik looked at him with light grey eyes filled with wonder. Shaw gave the boy to Emma and approached Lady Lehnsherr. Summoning all his power, he pushed her. She crashed in a tree at the other end of the clearing and remained still, life leaving her body.

Seeing his mother hurt, Erik started struggling in Emma’s arms until she let him go. With unsteady legs he walked to his mother. She did not move. Erik instinctively used his power on Lady Lehnsherr’s heavy bracelet and her limp hand brushed Erik’s cheek.

The feel of that lifeless skin on his face made the little boy cry. He kissed that hand, that loved face, trying to give them warmth and vitality. In vain. So absorbed he was with his mother’s well-being that when he finally turned to his father, lying feet away from him, the old man was already dead. Erik walked to him silently and knelt beside the still body. But his eyes were dry and there were no tears left to share for his beloved father.

Emma went to Erik. She crouched besides the boy and put her hands on his temples. A second later, his memories had been wiped out and he was asleep.

The Great Wizard and the Lady of the Lake headed out of the clearing with the boy, leaving behind the lifeless bodies of the good King and his wife.

 

This day, Erik lost everything; while Shaw was murdering his parents, Duke Claudas won a decisive battle and took the crown.

 

*****

 

The trio traveled several days until they reached the invisible tower by the lake.

Shaw entrusted Erik to Emma, who would train him. He entered the tower, locking himself out until Charles needed him.

 

In his prison, the Mighty Wizard Shaw laughed like a mad man.


	3. The Cursed Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [luninosity](http://luninosity.livejournal.com/) for betaing it. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Raven was sitting in a chair in front of a high mirror. Behind her, her mother, Duchess Sharon, was patiently brushing her long blond hair while singing a little lullaby. The Duchess was smiling, obviously happy to take care of her beautiful daughter.

Duchess Sharon loved her child as much as she could. But it was easier when she was her blond-haired blue-eyed self.

 

After Charles’ disappearance, the Duchess had felt awful for many weeks. She would eat scarcely, would cry for hours and sometimes she was sick in the morning, as she had been when expecting her little boy. People thought it was his death that made her so depressed. So their words of comfort meant nothing to her: he was not dead, he had been taken away by the evil wizard! Not that she could tell anyone.

She had a confidant who knew the truth though. She needed someone to understand her pain. Anyone. Her chambermaid was good enough. At least the young girl would not babble out for fear of being fired. Isolda had been hired when she was still a teen, for her parents, a couple of merchants, were both ill and they needed the money. The chambermaid had been cute as a button at that time, and that was the main reason for the Duchess to accept her help. If she was not exactly a daughter for Sharon, she could be considered as a niece at least. Sharon trusted her.

 

The Duchess started feeling better when she became pregnant once again. And this time, it was her husband’s child without any doubt. Nine months later, she gave birth to a little girl. Raven was breast-fed, and Sharon enjoyed that intimate moment with her. She had the Duchess’ hair and eyes, and Marko’s nose. She was a cute little thing, plump and rosy and always smiling.

Everything changed in her third year. After a loud noise – she would never know what it had been, or the culprit would have been beheaded a long time ago – that got even the Duchess jumping  and that reverberated through the whole castle, the Lady saw her baby turning from white to blue, from blond curls to straight red hair. Raven’s now yellow eyes were looking at her full of fear. Because Sharon had begun shrieking at the sight of the monster that was facing her from where her daughter had been.

Raven, afraid, turned back to her blond self automatically, but kept changing from one appearance to the other for several minutes after that, like she did not know which one was her real form anymore.

 

Duchess Sharon had heard about those people, and had seen at least two of them. Those sorcerers with powers. It was said that they were magical from birth. Apparently she was the mother of one of those beings.

The thought helped her focus her mind, and she dealt with her daughter as best as she could.

“I am sorry for frightening you, my dear,” she said to the little girl. “I was just surprised!”

Sharon’s heart still beat fast with the fear she had experienced. She hugged Raven, her skin crawling when she felt scales under her palms, relieved when it changed to a smooth pink flesh.

When Raven was back with her nursemaid, Sharon finally had time to think about the situation.

She went outside and sat on a bench under an old Cornish elm that she loved. From there, she could look at the waves crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, the rumbling sound like an odd lullaby. A multitude of birds came and went, their complaining of the cold lost in the wind. It calmed her spirit.

She knew there was nothing to do against her daughter’s power. But sorceresses were not allowed to become princesses. And they needed a princess. It was doubtful the Duchess could give birth to another heir – or she would lose her life, according to her midwife, and Duke Marko was rather hostile to the idea. Politics required them to at least have one child they could marry, to keep the estate in the family and perpetuate the name of Marko, Duke of Tintagel, and maybe win an ally in case of war – or make an ally out of an enemy, for Marko had lots of enemies. A magical being was useless to them, even with great powers. They would lose everything.

Duchess Sharon was sighing over her misfortune when a thought came to her mind: Raven’s power was definitely physical, hence it would be hard to conceal it. But at the same time, the very nature of that power would help them doing exactly that. If the little girl could keep her blond appearance, no one would ever know that their daughter was a sorceress.

Finally getting over her initial shock of discovering the magical nature of her offspring, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She would train her little girl until she forgot her blue form.

 

Duchess Sharon went back to Raven’s room. She asked to be left alone with her daughter.

The baby girl was in the middle of her room, playing with her favorite doll. Sharon crouched next to her and stroked the woolen hair of the doll.

“I am sorry about my behavior earlier, Raven,” she said, rather contrite.

As if to show her mother that she wanted to ignore her, the little girl suddenly took the likeness of her doll and stayed still and quiet. Sharon felt a pang in her heart.

She kissed the top of Raven’s head and apologized once again. The baby girl decided it was enough and threw herself in her mother’s arm as she changed back to her blond-haired self.

 

Now, years later, Raven controlled her power perfectly. At eleven, she was able to look like anyone that she had seen more than once, and keep that form for days if she wanted to. And it took only a second for her to go from one appearance to another.

But sometimes, she still resented her mother for the way she had reacted to her gift, and later for the burden the Duchess had put on her shoulders. Because she knew now that her blue form was her real natural form – she never got tired while wearing it, when it was a great effort to maintain any other, even her blond hair appearance. But she had to keep it at all time. She was not allowed to show her blue self. Never. Even in the relative intimacy of her own bedroom. She was a prisoner in someone else’s body.

“Do not move, my dear, I cannot brush your hair if you do,” her mother said from behind her.

She was in a spiteful mood though. She replied: “You know you do not have to brush my hair, Mother, right? Look!” Her skin rippled all over her body, blue peeking through pink and red through blonde. When it stopped, she had perfectly brushed hair. “See?” she said to her mother with a smirk, looking at the Duchess’ reflection in the mirror.

All colors had drained from Sharon’s face and her hands were shaking – either with anger or with fear, Raven did not know. Without a word, the Duchess put the brush on the table and left the room.

 

In front of her mirror, Raven took her blue appearance, winked at it, and laughed wickedly.

 

*****

 

Raven was wandering in the long dim corridors of the castle. No place was forbidden for her, even when it was. Should she have the desire to visit the servants’ area, she just had to take the appearance of one of the maids. Go play with the pages? The look of a teen boy would be perfect. Even her father’s quarters were easy to enter at all time with the face of a knight or, once, of her own mother.

She was around her mother’s bedroom when she heard the voice of Duchess Sharon.

“Isolda, is that you?” the Duchess shouted.

Hearing the name of her mother’s personal chambermaid, Raven panicked and took Isolda’s form a few seconds before Sharon came into view. Not waiting for an answer, she had peeked through the open door and was now looking at her daughter unknowingly.

The Duchess’ face was running with tears and her hair was disheveled. She was tightly holding a handkerchief in her hand, that she used to dry her cheeks.

“Isolda, thank God. Please do come in, I need to talk to you.”

Raven curtseyed hurriedly and followed her mother in her room. Sharon was already pacing around.

“How can I help you, my Lady?” Raven asked. She had to play the part. Her mother’s wrath would be devastating if she was discovered.

“I was thinking about Charles once again.”

Raven knew the story of her brother. Sometimes she missed him, even though she never knew him. She was so lonely most of the time. She imagined what it would be like, to have an older sibling – although not by much. Maybe she could have confessed her fears and her joys to him, and he would hold her like no one ever did, soothing and comforting.

“I held him against my chest, Isolda. I fed him. For five days” Sharon said, crying her heart out.

Raven started. Her brother was supposed to be stillborn. How was it possible?

“What do you mean, my Lady?” She was too astonished to be more careful about her questions. Thankfully the Duchess was too desperate to realize Raven’s mistake.

“I hate that wizard. Shaw stole my baby.” Sharon walked to Raven and hugged her, wailing on her shoulder.

Bewildered, Raven could not react. Her mother very rarely held her like that. To know that she could embrace a mere chambermaid so easily hurt her more than she thought was possible.

She tentatively tapped on Sharon’s back, a painful gesture of comfort when she wanted to cry out of frustration and anger.

“Knowing he was the son of King Xavier instead of my beloved husband does not even lower my pain, Isolda. Can you believe it?” the Duchess asked.

Raven was now beyond amazement. She may be only eleven, but she knew about love between a man and a woman – not the specifics but she got the general idea. You were not supposed to have children with a man that was not your husband. Did her mother commit a sin?

 

During the next hour she learned the whole story: how King Xavier had managed to get her mother pregnant – she was not really responsible, but Raven still resented her, deep in her childish heart – and how Shaw came and took the baby.

When she finally left her mother, calmed and about to fall asleep, Raven ran to her own bedroom.

In her blue form, seated on the windowsill, she thought about her mother and her brother.

But especially the Duchess. She obviously loved her missing son more than the daughter staying at her side. Raven understood that the reason was her gift. Her curse. That did not help.

Sharon was shallow and cold. Never had she showed to her own daughter that she was capable of anything more than a pat on the head in passing. But it was not enough for her son. For her missing baby, she could cry and embrace a chambermaid.

Enraged, Raven threw a wooden cube in her mirror, shattering it to pieces. It was a useless piece of furniture: the reflection in the mirror was never her.

She wanted to hurt her mother, as much as she was hurting now.

And she knew exactly how.

 

Much more cheerful now, with a smile eating half of her face – one could have argued it was more a grimace than a smile – and in long strides, she walked to her father’s quarter, changing to her blond-haired self in the process.

She found him in what they called the War Room, because Marko always planed his campaigns here. Like any other room in the castle, this one was dim and cold. The dark grey walls displayed ornate drapes depicting battle scenes or hunting pictures. A large table stood in the middle, surrounded by a couple of chairs.

The man was discussing something or another with his seneschals. A large map was unfolded on the table, and they were all bent over it, deeply engaged in strategy and warfare. The door was open but Raven still knocked on the wooden panel.

At her sight, Duke Marko’s face darkened, frowning at the little girl. He ignored her, finishing his meeting with the knights before he dismissed them. They walked past her with barely a nod to the princess.

When Marko’s brown eyes finally settled on her under his bushy eyebrows, they were alight with something akin to ire. He came to her, his hand nervously scratching at his goatee. As he reached her, he stretched out his arm and slapped her.

Raven’s head hit the door with a dull bong. She did not cry – she had cried enough already, for a child so young.

“I told you many times that you shall not bother me in my War Room, little pest,” Marko said, his deep voice rumbling. He turned back and sat in a chair, waiting for Raven to tell him what she wanted and leave.

She humbly lowered her eyes on her feet and whispered: “Yes, Father. I am sorry, Father.”

 

She really did not know how to tell the truth about Charles to the Duke. Would he even believe her?

She could not reveal the fact that she learned her mother’s secret using her gift. Duke Marko was ignorant of his daughter’s little cosmetic problem. Only her mother knew about it. She had no proof of what she was about to say. She could only hope that planting the seed of suspicion would be enough. That it would grow and grow until it became a beautiful rose with deadly thorns. She could only hope.

She mustered her courage and, head still lowered, she said in one breath: “Father, I learned today that my brother Charles was indeed alive, and that he was never your son to begin with. From my mother’s mouth.” When her speech was finished, she inhaled a large gulp of air and risked a glance at her father’s face.

The Duke’s frown had become a real scowl, and he seemed to think deeply about what he had been told. He asked: “Why would you lie about that, Raven?” His tone was oddly sweet, like he did not believe it was an invention of his daughter. Like the question was directed to himself, not to the little girl.

She still answered, a little frown of her own creating creases on her otherwise smooth forehead. “I do not lie, Father.”

“Stay here,” he said, as he got up and headed out of the room.

Raven heard his heavy footsteps receding in the hallways. Soon his voice reached her too: he was talking with the Duchess – Sharon’s high pitched tone came to her through the corridors. They were obviously arguing, but she could not make out the words. It was followed with sounds of fighting and eventually her mother crying.

Duke Marko was now coming back to her. She straightened a bit and waited patiently.

As soon as he passed through the door, he growled: “Go to your bedroom. Now.”

She fled.

 

She heard him calling after his seneschals, but did not stay to see what it was about.

In the comfortable silence of her room, she tried to convince herself that she had done the right thing, that her mother had paid for all the pain she had experienced for years.

But when the clicking sounds of armors and weaponry came from the courtyard under her window, she was not so sure anymore.

 

*****

 

When Marko had asked her about Charles, her first question had been: “How do you know?” That was why he was now sure that Xavier had abused his wife and that Charles was alive – although no one knew where the boy was.

For the Duke, it was as well that King Xavier had declared war against him. He would not let the King win that battle.

 

Bent over a new map in his War Room, Duke Marko was trying to choose the best place to run the battle. ‘There,’ he thought, pointing out a large meadow flanked with two small hills on the South, direction of Tintagel. The place was nearer the Duke’s castle than Xavier’s fortress, it was perfect.

He called out every knight available on his lands, every Lord owing him a favor. They all came with their soldiers. Soon the courtyard resounded with the rattle of the shining armors and the horses’ hooves.

He explained his strategy to his seneschals and his knights, and let them settle for the night in camps at the foot of Tintagel’s castle.

Then he sent a messenger to King Xavier, declaring war to the sovereign and asking to meet in the fields of Glastonbury in ten days, when the sun was high in the sky.

 

"For six days, knights and soldiers prepared for the battle, cleaning and sharpening their swords, making dozens of arrows, taking care of the horses who would take part in the war. In the morning, they were training. In the evening, the drunken laughs and shouts of the soldiers could be heard within the castle.

The seventh day at sunset, the tents were folded up and fastened to the back of the horses. The camps disappeared in a matter of hours, and by midday they had left Tintagel.

Duke Marko sent a kiss to his wife who was waiting at her window, her face drenched in tears.

Little did he know that it would be the last time he saw her.

 

The tenth day at noon, Marko’s and Xavier’s armies were finally face to face in the fields of Glastonbury. King Xavier’s soldiers showed signs of exhaustion, having walked a longer route to come to battle.

The King had had less time to gather his troops before leaving – that was Marko’s plan – so the forces were equal. They both had foot soldiers, archers and knights. Their tactics would be decisive.

As the general of his army, Duke Marko was standing at the back of the troops with the other knights, ready to yell his first order.

 

The meadow was eerily quiet, bathed in the autumn’s sun. Birds passed and left in silence, fleeing away from the place that would soon be soaked by blood.

No one moved, all waiting for orders. The atmosphere was tensed and charged with energy. The King could almost see the waves it created in the air. Nervous, worried about his soldier, he was waiting for the battle to begin, unsure about when he should send his troops to fight.

Suddenly, Marko raised his sword and shouted: “Archers!”

The men at the front, who had had their orders days before, grabbed their bows lying in the grass. They took arrows from their quivers and sent the first salvo. The darts flew through the air, above the fields, their whistling a bad omen for the enemy.

Xavier’s soldiers had little time to protect themselves with their shields, and the King ended up with a lot of casualties after only a few seconds of battle. He saw courageous men fall on the ground, horses stroke with deadly darts. Panic was threatening his troops. The man was seething. Wounded soldiers were quickly evacuated while he ordered his own salvo of arrows to be sent.

 

On the other end of the meadow, archers were following the plan and were preparing to shoot again when Xavier’s arrows fell on them, piercing arms and legs and throats. Marko’s troop of archers was decimated.

The Duke wasted little time and ordered the knights to charge, followed by the foot soldiers armed with maces and pikes. Marko galloped with them, sword high in the air. They were all shouting their rage at the sky in a single wild song.

Xavier was prepared for the attack. “Spears!” he cried over the noises of the battle. The front rows raised their weapons, pointing them to the sky, and waited for the knights.

 

When they arrived, the clash was violent. The spears killed many horses, the riders on their back falling in the middle of the battlefield. But the knights’ swords did great damage too, slicing through the light armors of the soldiers easily.

Marko’s army penetrated the King’s defense with most of his knights now on foot. They were fighting on equal terms with the remaining troops of Xavier. Step by step, dead body after dead body, the Duke was getting closer to Xavier, ready to kill him.

But when he judged that the King’s army was not offering a great resistance anymore, he called out: “Soldiers, with your Duke!”

 

"More troops – fresh troops – came from between the hills on the right of the battlefields, where they were hiding since the beginning. They charged Xavier’s soldiers with energy and strength, massacring the enemies.

Marko knew victory was his, but it did not matter to him. He was not here to win a war: he was here to avenge his wife.

Now a few feet away from the King, he started fighting him, blow after blow of his heavy sword.

Xavier fought back with vigor. He was about to hit the Duke with a lethal blow when a soldier wounded his horse, making him fall off it. Now on his back, hindered by his armor, he felt vulnerable and did not know what to do.

Marko dismounted as soon as he saw the King on the ground and rushed towards the sovereign. Seeing a weak point, he brought down his sword and pierced Xavier’s abdomen.

 

The wounded man reacted quickly and seized a spear lying beside him. He raised it promptly and it went through Marko’s chest, fatally injuring the Duke who fell on his back.

The King had trouble breathing, pain radiating through his torso. The large wound bled profusely, staining the grass of the battlefield with red. Somehow it cleared his mind and he managed to concentrate on what was happening around him. In between clangs and shouts, he could hear injured soldiers groaning, crying, dying.

He had rushed towards the battle because he had feared a siege if he waited too long. He now regretted it immensely, but it was too late. His death would be a terrible blow to the Kingdom’s peace, of course. But he mostly regretted sending so many brave men to a certain death.

He prayed silently for Shaw to have been right, and for his son to take care of the Holy Land of Britain when he would be gone.

 

Marko knew he was dying. He had blood in his mouth, and the whistling sound he heard when inhaling was not good news. His strength was leaving him little by little.

He still had his sword in his hand, and he tightened his hold on the hilt as he started crawling towards Xavier. He coughed once a thin bruin of red but kept moving forward.

He finally reached the King lying on the ground. The Duke was smiling but burned with hate.

“You know you are going to die, Xavier?” Marko asked, a gurgling sound coming out of his throat.

The King slowly nodded. “I suppose you will not spare my life, Duke Marko.” He sounded oddly resigned.

“And do you know why you have to die?” Marko already knew the answer, but torturing Xavier before finishing him off was satisfying. The last pleasure of an already dead man.

Xavier shook his head. “Enlighten me, please.” Even dying, he kept his regal manners. It enraged Marko.

“I know about Sharon and Charles, Xavier. This is my revenge.”

The King’s eyes widened almost comically. Marko took advantage of his bewilderment and plunged his sword in Xavier’s throat. He just had time to hear the King’s last breath before he fainted.

He never woke up and died on Xavier’s chest.

 

*****

 

Back in Tintagel, Raven did not know yet how her own revenge had ended.

She would have time to regret what she did later, and for many years.


	4. The Virtuous King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay: RL and low self-confidence kept getting in the way. But finally that chapter is done, and I intend to post the next one in a week or two (as soon as it's finished).
> 
> I did a [calligraphy](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/clarounette/15911760/20011/20011_original.jpg) of the poem at the beginning of the prologue. I hope you will like it.
> 
> And finally, thanks to [luninosity](http://luninosity.livejournal.com/) for betaing it. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Autumn was saying goodbye, abandoning dead leaves and puddles of mud behind him. The wind blew through naked branches. It whistled, as if calling Winter to finally come out and cover the ground with snow. Winter was definitely coming, but there would be no snow for a couple of months.

Still, the air was cold, and fireplaces were keeping homes warm.

 

Deep in the forest, young Charles was cutting wood with his father. Antor was working fifty yards away; Charles could see the man bending down once in a while, grabbing armfuls of twigs. They would soon go back home with a cart full of logs that they would pile up outside, against the wall. It was a hard work, but raising and bringing down an axe kept him warm in the chilly air.

Suddenly he heard a stray thought from Antor: _‘My back is hurting. I am going to pick up Charles and we will go home.’_ Charles put the last cut logs and his axe in his wheelbarrow and joined his father.

 

Charles knew that Antor was not his real father. But the man had taken such a good care of him since he was a little baby that he could not call him with any other name. Antor would always be his father. And Aenor, Antor’s wife, would always be his mother.

“I think we should go home now, Father,” Charles said to Antor once he had reached the man. He helped Antor with his task, everything soon put away in the old cart.

“Were you in my mind, son?” Antor asked with a large smile on his face as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Charles held a dirty handkerchief out to him.

It was a jest, alright, but Charles was embarrassed just the same. Because it was the truth. That was actually the reason he knew Antor and Aenor were not his real parents. Neither had told him, but he had read it in their minds.

 

At first, it had been odd but exhilarating. He had been an infant just starting to babble some recognizable words when his power appeared.

Each time his father or his mother talked to him, he heard two speeches. And one was somehow subdued, like a whisper, not to his hear but to the back of his head. Most of the time both speeches had the same meaning, even when the words were different. But sometimes they would diverge. When it was the case, the whisper would be angry, or sad, always tinted with a colorful feeling, while the words escaping the mouth stayed emotionless. The face showed no emotion either.

He had learned since then to hide his reactions to those whispers. He was not supposed to hear them. “Why do you smile like a loon, Charles?” Aenor would ask after she had a sweet thought about him. Or “Why are you crying, now?” if Antor’s worries about Winter or his health made Charles sad. When they started thinking he may be a lunatic, he chose to concentrate on the actual words more than the thoughts, and kept his feelings to himself. He became the quietest child of the kingdom. But often at night his pillow was drenched in tears.

 

 _‘Damn, I was about to forget my lunch,’_ Antor thought, looking around. The cloth containing a chunk of stale bread and some radishes lay on the ground, a few feet away from them. Charles heard the pain in Antor’s mind-voice, and wanted to help him. The only thing that could top his fear of being discovered was his extreme kindness. He reached for the bundle before Antor moved an inch, grabbed it with both hands and held it out to the man.

“Thank you,” Antor said out loud. But something else was murmured to the back of Charles’ head, and it was said with suspicion.

The smile spreading on Charles’ face was anything but sincere.

 

His power was not normal, whatever “normal” meant. He did not feel like one of the monsters from the stories Aenor read him when he was a little boy, but he knew he was not like the other children either. When he played with his friends, he heard whispered hating words behind amused harsh names, sometimes shy confessions in between insults. They came from everyone and they formed a background noise, like a wind he alone could hear. Charles knew those murmurs were not to be heard by anyone, but he heard them anyway.

The first time he understood this big lesson was at the Church. He was five and for three years already he had lived with the mind-wind blowing around him. After the mass, he had asked Aenor: “Mama, why do people pray for peace and harmony when all they want is to hurt each other?”

“What makes you think it is so, Charles?” Aenor replied.

“I heard the miller say he would beat his wife when they get home.” The man was a good friend of Aenor, and she visited him and his wife regularly.

Aenor’s gentle smile melted like snow under the sun. “He would never say that. Baldric and Emma love each other very much. Come, Charles. It is time to go home.” And when she took his little hand in hers, maybe it was Charles imagining things but she seemed to squeeze a bit too much.

People’s thoughts were personal, and most of the time, no one wanted to know about them. The lies that came from the mouths were sweeter than the truth of the minds. Charles would keep his knowledge to himself, and be the only one tasting the sourness of the souls. He did not want to add a burden to his parents, or anyone at all.

He had since learned to block everyone else’s thoughts, to shield himself especially from strangers’ minds as much as his power let him. Getting intentions and feelings from people Charles already knew was somehow harmless. He understood them enough to guess what they had in mind most of the time. But Charles could not know what was in strangers’ heads beforehand, and being assaulted with defiance, anger and sometimes outright rage was frightening. And so he blocked, always.

He was now fourteen and he was alone. So terribly alone. And nothing his loving parents would do could change that.

 

Something else was bothering him. He knew that an old and strange man was supposed to come and take him from his parents. The thought had always been at the forefront of Aenor’s and Antor’s minds. At first it was just a vague anxiety, as if Charles would vanish any moment. But it grew with the years, until his parents would sometimes look at him as though he was already gone and they missed him very much. They never talked about it – one more thing he was not supposed to know. When he was a child, he thought it was a punishment, and tried to be as good as he could, hoping the man would never come if he was a well-behaved little boy. But his parents’ fear did not disappear and he understood it was his fate. A veil of resignation fell on his useless hopes.

For six months already, since his fourteenth anniversary, they had all waited nervously for that man. Any day could be the last he would spend with Antor and Aenor, and he could not really enjoy them as fear crept in his heart.

He had seen the face of that man in his parents’ minds, and it was the face that haunted his nightmares. The features were nice enough, but there was a spark of mischief, of evil, in those pale blue eyes. They were often the only thing visible under the darkness of his hood and they seemed to glow sinisterly.

Every night, Charles thanked God for allowing him to spend one more day with his parents, just before another bad dream swept him away.

 

Charles and Antor walked back home in silence.

When they were a few yards away from the little house, Charles heard his mother thinking about the delicious stew that was simmering in the pot above the fire. It was hot and the smell was appetizing.

No doubt the hot food would soothe his father’s ache. But he would not tell him. It would be a surprise.

He did not want to see suspicion in Antor’s eyes ever again.

 

 

*****

 

Between his last encounter with Shaw and his tragic death on the Glastonbury meadow, King Xavier had delivered on his promises to the Wizard. He had built the prestigious castle of Westchester and adorned it with a beautiful Round Table.

Somewhere South of Britain Xavier had found the perfect spot for the castle. Perched on a wooded hill, the white towers of the fortress were looking down on the country, its fields and its villages. On the front, above the main entrance, the Xavier coat of arms had been engraved.

Westchester’s halls were large and well lit, richly ornate with drapes and statues and painted vases. Lush woolen carpets coming from the East covered the otherwise cold floor. The windows were high and wide, letting the sun reflect on the white walls.

In one of the rooms, deep in the castle, the wooden Round Table had been brought by the artisan who made it, and his apprentices. Made of the strongest ebony, it displayed its robust and dark features to any knight allowed to pass the door.

When King Xavier was still alive, once every month, the castle would resound with laughter and conversations. The knights Xavier had chosen to sit at the Round Table – most of them had been at the Glastonbury battle – came with their families for three days. There were receptions and festivities, and, the morning of the second day, the Knights would sit with King Xavier around the Table and discuss Britain’s politics and war against the Saxons. On the third day, a tournament was always organized, and the Lords were happy to show their skills in a friendly manner.

 

After King Xavier’s demise, his surviving allies decided on a meeting at Westchester. The powerful Kings and Dukes of the Kingdom were gathered around the Round Table. They were wearing the scars from the battle that took Xavier’s life. They all had been faithful allies to the Fair King, and his death was a tragedy.

“Britain needs a King!” Lot, King of Orkney, growled, banging loudly on the Table.

They nodded, all agreeing. Of course they were agreeing, the problem was: who should be the new King of Britain? Xavier had no wife and no child, there was no legitimate heir.

“As the oldest ally of King Xavier, I should rule Britain,” Urien said. King of Gorre, Urien had been an enemy for a long time before Xavier convinced him to join him. If the dead King ever had a friend, it had been that strong Scottish sovereign.

But Urien’s territory and power were not as strong as the man himself. The other Lords complained.

“How can a King of so small a land be capable of governing the Holy Kingdom of Britain?”

“You must be joking, Lord Urien.”

“I simply refuse that a Scottish King becomes my sovereign!” Edern, King of Cornwall, said with anger.

North and South of Britain were fighting over power, while the other Lords tried to choose their side.

 

One knight remained quiet, standing in a corner of the room, looking outside through the large window. Lord MacTaggert, King of Cameliard, already knew the outcome of such a discussion: personal ambitions would get in the way and they would not reach a consensus. He was waiting patiently for the argument to die on its own.

Lot of Orkney chose that moment to turn towards MacTaggert. ”What do you think, Sir MacTaggert? You cannot possibly have no opinion on that matter,” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Boredom written on his face, King MacTaggert turned around and answered: “My opinion is that we cannot decide. We need someone else, a wise man, to make the decision for us.”

Intrigued, Urien replied: “And who do you think we should ask?”

MacTaggert smirked. “Well the Great Wizard Shaw of course!”

“And he shall help you!” The doors had opened suddenly and in came the Wizard. He looked around at the Lords gathered in the room. They all had turned when they had heard his voice. Some of them bowed before the Mighty Wizard, others stared at him with suspicion and doubt. All were afraid of what he would say. Shaw bathed in the feeling.

 

He gestured towards them, and they all sat around the Table, waiting for his words. But he kept silent, pacing the room, all intent and patience.

Until Urien raised his voice. “Which of us do you think should rule Britain, Great Wizard?”

Shaw glared at the King of Gorre, obviously offended. “And what makes you imagine that I am the one to decide?”

Confused, the knights studied each other. Urien was once again the one to talk. “But you said you will help us?”

Shaw had them eating out of his hand. It was perfect.

He took his time, to let the tension seep into every knight’s bones. When the silence became heavy with anxiety, he stopped pacing and crossed his arms behind his back. “I shall help you, as I said. But I will not tell you who will be the King, as it is not in my power to know.” He was lying, of course, but they did not need to hear the truth.

King MacTaggert intervened: “And how will you help us, then, Mighty Wizard?”

“This is what you shall do. You will invite everyone in the Kingdom here for Christmas. Fate will then show you Britain’s true King. And you shall obey him unconditionally.”

The Lords were troubled, but they had no other choice. They would follow his words.

Shaw left the room with their promise to do as he had said.

 

The Great Wizard had now a young boy to take away from his foster parents.

 

 

*****

 

Charles was coming back from his schooling at the nearest church. The elderly priest taught him reading, writing and counting. Antor and Aenor had insisted that he should study. Thankfully he quite liked learning new things, and his teacher was more than happy to share his extended knowledge with the boy.

 

He was a few yards away from home when he felt a void in the house alongside the bright minds of his parents. They both thought about that third person, but nothing was coming from the stranger. Afraid, he refused to watch that man through his parents’ eyes, because he was almost certain already of whom it was. When he tried to reach for the surface’s feelings of the stranger, the tendrils of Charles’ mind came back with nothing, like they just went through thin air.

He walked faster, dreading the meeting with the man from his nightmares while wishing for it to be over at the same time.

When he opened the door, the stranger was turning his back to him, but he read desperation and fear on his parents’ face. On the man’s head, a crown made of a dark metal was glowing dully. Something told Charles the odd diadem was the reason he could not reach the man’s feelings.

When Shaw finally turned around, he was smiling, but it did not quite extend to his eyes. Charles could not read his mind, but Shaw’s eyes were full of purpose and calculation. Charles did not trust him. But he knew he had little choice in the matter.

 

“Ah, you are back, my boy,” Antor said, smiling. But there were tears in his eyes. “This man is…”

Shaw interrupted him. “Let me explain to Charles the reason for my presence.” He kept staring at the boy as if he was judging him, measuring him for a task he could not yet imagine. Charles supposed he would know soon enough.

“Antor and Aenor are not your real parents,” the man added with a sardonic smile. Charles saw the old couple wince, and decided to play the part – he was not expected to know the truth already. He gasped and hid his mouth behind his hand, hoping it would be enough to fool his parents. However it was not enough for Shaw, as a glint of maliciousness appeared in his pupils.

“I entrusted them with you, but now the time has come for me to take you back, as you have a destiny to accomplish.” He got up. “So gather your possessions, Charles. We do not want to be late for Fate.” Shaw walked through the door and waited outside, not even saying goodbye to Antor and his wife.

More distressed, Charles turned to his parents, tears already flowing down his cheeks. The moment he had dreaded for six months had finally arrived, and he did not want to leave his home.

He hugged Aenor fiercely. She was holding him, kissing his hair, crying like her heart was being ripped from her chest. Her mouth to his hear, she whispered small advices. “Do not forget your scarf when you go outside. Eat at least one fruit each day.” It felt more like he was going on a short journey. But Charles knew it would be longer than that.

Antor was not demonstrative. He was not affectionate. However, when he looked at the boy he had raised for fourteen years for the last time, he embraced him tightly.

Charles collected his meager belongings and used one of his tattered shirts to make a small bundle. He kissed his parents one last time and passed through the door.

 

Outside, the Mighty Wizard was leaning back against the trunk of an old tree, watching absently the race of the clouds in the sky. When he heard the door shutting, he stared at Charles until the boy was at his side.

“You are a filthy little liar,” he said casually.

Charles cringed. No one had ever called him a liar, but he knew it was the truth. And that did mean the man – he had not heard his name yet, as his parents did not know – was familiar with his gift. He was now more certain than ever that the crown on the stranger’s head was aimed for him.

“And you are hiding your mind behind jewelry. Are you afraid of me that much?” Charles’ smugness started Shaw, and his conceited smile disappeared. In its place, a grimace of rage now deformed Shaw’s feature. “Do not consider yourself clever, boy. I will always surpass you.”

If their pace hastened, Charles had only himself to blame.

 

In the safety of his own mind, he thought: _‘We will see, old man. We will see.’_

 

 

*****

 

On the top of a hill, there was a sword stuck in a large stone. Its blade was strong, engraved with Latin words, and its hilt was made of the purest silver.

The legend said it had been plunged in a block of almost petrified lava by a giant when Britain was still a burning Hell inhabited with demons and monsters, and the blade was so perfect it did not melt.

Shaw knew better. It was a Gifted – whose power was to alter matter – who changed the rock into a ball of mud before changing it back, leaving the sword in the rock for all eternity.

The hill was located a couple of miles away from Westchester castle. One could almost see the glistening of the sword’s hilt in the sun from the fortress’ highest crenellations. It was perfect for Shaw’s plan.

 

The Great Wizard arrived with Charles at Westchester the day before Christmas. Most of the guests were there already, and the staff was busy preparing their rooms and cooking a fest for Christmas Eve. Servants and chambermaids were running around like headless chickens. But thanks to the Wizard’s fame, they soon obtained their own room, and settled.

As soon as he had passed the main door, Charles had been assaulted with feelings of urgency and panic, exposed every second to the danger of breaking down and crying right away. Drifting like ribbons of grey smoke, he could smell arrogance and ambition, anger and jealousy, passion and romance. Now in the relative remoteness of their room, he was able to build the walls that would keep everyone’s mind at bay, and finally rest. He sat on the only chair of the room and stared out of the window.

After a few minutes, Shaw left him without a word.

 

Charles did not know what he was doing here, at Westchester. He knew it had been the King’s castle. He had heard in the Lords’ minds that they were waiting for some kind of miracle to tell them who would be Britain’s next sovereign. And the name of Shaw, associated with the face of his personal monster, was floating in everyone’s head, sometimes tinted with fear, sometimes painted in awe.

 _‘So Shaw is the name of my tormentor,’_ Charles thought. The Great Wizard Shaw, who had been King Xavier’s first advisor, who had shown his immense power in a duel several years ago. Shaw who, people said – or rather thought –, was God’s instrument and would point at the new King.

Shaw who had entrusted him to Antor and his wife before taking him back, as if he was a toy he could play with. Shaw who had refused to tell him who his real parents were when the boy had asked. Charles was more than confused. What did a powerful man like Shaw want or need from him? He was just an orphan – as far as he knew – raised by a poor couple in the middle of nowhere.

Their two day travel had been hell: they would not talk to each other, and at night, Charles was so sad he would cry for a long time before passing out. He missed his home, he missed his parents. His young heart was broken.

He did not understand why people thought so high of the Wizard. But Charles would not trust him. Ever. He would play along with the evil man’s plans until it would be too much, and find a way to escape from him.

Charles jumped on his bed. The mattress was supple and thick. Charles had never slept in a bed like this one. For an instant, he hoped his father was there: with his back hurting, Antor would enjoy such a luxury.

Charles turned on his side, and in a matter of second, he was asleep.

 

Shaw joined the knights in the Round Table’s room. They were all there, impatient and nervous. First they wanted to know what that madness was all about. Shaw would not give details, but there were some thing they needed to know.

“I suppose you all heard of Excalibur.”

Edern of Cornwall raised his voice: “You mean the Giant’s sword?”

“An old superstition,“ Lord Urien laughed. The King of Cornwall glared at him but kept silent.

“Do you know the real story of that magic blade, Mighty Wizard?” MacTaggert asked, curious.

“Oh yes, I know.” The Lords were now all looking at him with great attention. “Excalibur is the Sword of the True King! Only it can tell you who the next sovereign of Britain will be.”

Whispers of awe and murmured discussions filled the room.

Urien was the first to speak aloud. “How it can be?”

“Please tell us, Great Wizard,” King Lot added.

Shaw took a dramatic pose and said: “Tomorrow, when the sun rises, every man on the Land of Britain shall try and pull the Sword out of the stone. But only one man will succeed.”

“But that is not possible, Great Wizard. No one has ever been able to do so,” King Edern complained.

“Oh but it is, my Lord! I give you my word,” Shaw replied. “The one man who can pull out the King’s Sword is the true King of Britain, and he shall rule the Holy Land.” With that final word, he bowed and left the room.

 

Shaw joined Charles in their shared bedroom. The boy was sleeping, no doubt exhausted by their long trip. Shaw sat on his own bed.

The Wizard brushed his crown with two tentative fingers. He was so glad he and Emma were able to conceive such a device. With the help of a local blacksmith, they forged a ring out of a dark alloy that could block mind-readers. He had feared it would not work with Charles, but the boy did not seem able to perceive his thoughts. He was relieved.

But Charles did not trust him. He could tell. Not that his trust was required, but Shaw needed to be sure he could manipulate him in doing his deeds. He looked at the boy. “Will you be a threat, child?” he asked, knowing he would get no answer. “I do not care if you agree with my views, but I will destroy you if you hinder my plan.”

He got up and walked to Charles. He shook the boy’s shoulder. “Wake up, child. Dinner is served.”

Charles opened his eyes. For a second, he seemed lost, then remembered where he was. He hid his face in his arms. “I am not hungry, sir.” The truth was, it was his first Christmas without his parents, and he missed them greatly. He was not in the mood for festivities, surrounded by hundreds of unknown minds thinking despicable thoughts.

“As you please,” Shaw replied. “But do not forget that tomorrow you will have to come with me. Excalibur is waiting for you.” He did not elaborate and walked out of the room.

 

When he came back, Charles was sleeping soundly, dreaming of roasts and cookies.

 

 

*****

 

Stars were still shining in the dark blue sky, a little touch of orange tinting the horizon, when Charles woke up to the sound of a horn.

He and the Wizard dressed quickly and met with everyone in the courtyard. When they were ready, they headed to Excalibur’s hill.

They arrived as the sun was finally peaking above the horizon, filling the sky with a bright yellow glow.

Even with his walls built high in his mind, Charles could feel excitement and anxiety floating in the air. It was thrilling, and anticipation was flooding his veins unwillingly.

 

Shaw went up the hill and stood besides the large stone. He put his hand on the hilt, and started to speak.

“My Lords, my Ladies, people of Britain. As you all know, King Xavier died in a ferocious battle at the beginning of this month. Alas, he had no wife, no child. Britain is in dire need of a sovereign. This sword, here,” he waved at the stone, “is the Sword of the True King. Rooted in rock, no one can pull it out, except the legitimate King of our Holy Land. We are all gathered here today to see who God has deemed deserving of the highest rank of nobility. Every man shall have one try at it. By the virtue of their honorable condition, the Kings and the Dukes of the country will be the first to try.”

He made a gesture towards Lot of Orkney, who climbed the hill and put his hands on the Sword. He pulled it, he shook it, but the blade did not move an inch. Disappointed, he retreated and let Urien, King of Gorre, attempt at retrieving the blade from the large stone.

One by one, they all gave it a shot, but no one succeed. By noon, every noble person of Britain had failed the test.

After a quick lunch of bread and fruits, it was the turn of the more humble citizens.

 

Shaw had discreetly left the assembly. He knew no one could pull the sword out of the stone without his help, but he needed help himself in doing so. He went in search of a corruptible servant. He saw a man of perhaps forty who seemed perfect. His face showed a permanent frown and a mischievous spark lightened his brown eyes. Shaw approached him.

“You, come here,” he ordered. “What is your name?”

“They call me Stryker, sir,” the servant answered politely.

“I will give you a golden coin if you hit me, brave man.”

Stryker looked at the Great Wizard dubiously. “It is a trick, certainly.”

“There is no trick,” Shaw replied. “And to prove my honesty, I will pay you in advance.” And he held the coin out to the servant.

The man took it, tried to bite it, and smiled when he realized it was genuine. “Alright, sir. I accept.”

“Go ahead, then. Hit me where you want.”

Stryker slapped the Mighty Wizard in the face, a strong blow that sent Shaw’s head to the right. The Wizard was seething – it was not a painful strike, but it was a vicious one. Gritting his teeth, he said: “Well done, Stryker. You can now leave.”

Dismissed, the vile servant went his way, twirling the coin.

 

Now full of energy, Shaw got back to the sword. The queue of people waiting to try was quite short now, as the sun was about to set behind the horizon.

Charles had stayed aside the whole time, watching the ceremony – because it was one – and still not understanding what he was doing here. He wanted to give it a shot, but it was his curiosity challenging him. He had no desire to become a King. He was just a humble teen, who will become a humble worker in time.

He straightened his back when he saw Shaw coming to him. Without a word, the man grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the sword. Charles knew struggling was useless, so he followed the Wizard obediently.

Shaw pushed the last man who had tried – a peasant or a merchant, he did not know, but the man had failed too – and made a gesture at Charles. Resigned, the boy took the hilt and started to pull.

Discreetly, Shaw hit the stone with the point of his shoe. It crackled imperceptibly, but it was enough to free the blade. Surprised, Charles almost fell on his back, the sword in his hand. He looked at it stupidly.

 

A deafening silence filled the clearing. The crowd gathered at the foot of the hill could only stare at the young boy God had chosen to rule Britain.

Until King MacTaggert knelt respectfully, helmet in hand and sword at his feet. Soon everybody else was getting down on their knees, Lords and peasants, men and women, adults and children.

The Great Wizard opened his arms. “Britain has a new King. Long live King Charles!” His cry was echoed joyously.

Charles was too out of it to hear the under-currant of hatred and jealousy poisoning the stream of their happy chant. He got up clumsily, tightening his hold on Excalibur, the instrument of his Fate. The faces looking at him – the faces of his subjects – faded and blurred, until the crowd disappeared and silence fell on his now deaf ears. He was a King. He was fourteen, and he was King. Shivers ran down his spine. How was it possible? What sorcery was it? Shaw’s, undoubtedly.

When the voices quieted, Shaw spoke again. “Charles here is still too young to rule the country efficiently.” The Wizard called King MacTaggert. “Lord MacTaggert, King of Cameliard, you shall teach King Charles how to be a good sovereign. And in the meantime, you will be the regent. I trust you will do for Britain as you do for your land: rule wisely.”

King MacTaggert bowed before Charles. “I shall do as you please, my King.”

 

That night, there were celebrations and songs and wine. At one point, Shaw had snuck into the darkness of the forest and never returned.

Seated at one end of the long table, Charles did not understand yet how his life had changed. But it had changed all the same. He was a fourteen year old King. Antor’s and Aenor’s lovely humble home had never seemed so far away.


	5. The Handsome Foundling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was always one chapter ahead exactly for that kind of situation: terrible writer block. Now I'll be forced to write if I don't want to disappoint my dear readers :)
> 
> The wonderful artist Sarlyne made [a beautiful fanart for my birthday](http://sarlyne-art.tumblr.com/post/32542408489/happy-birthday-clarou-d-have-an-illustration). Please give her all the love she deserves!!
> 
> And finally, thanks to [luninosity](http://luninosity.livejournal.com/) for betaing it. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Erik opened his eyes. It was still dawn and the sun was just appearing on the horizon. Bleak sunbeams were fighting against the darkness of the night. Eventually they would win and fill the sky with their colorful light.

Until then, the air was fresh and smelled of promises. It was the perfect time for Erik to start the day.

 

He went to the lake and took a bath. The quiet atmosphere of the undergrowth was relaxing, while the water was cold enough to spring his nerves into life. Clean and finally wide awake, Erik came back to the cottage.

On his way there, in a particularly dark spot under the trees, he stretched his arm through thin air: there was nothing, of course. But there was something. Erik knew it. He had seen Shaw appearing around here, somber and brooding, oddly resolved – although Erik had no idea what the purpose of this man was.

His mother – Emma, Lady of the Lake for everybody else, so she claimed – called it Shaw’s prison. But how was that invisible tower Shaw’s prison if he could come in and out as it pleased him? Emma had the key, Emma opened the door, but Erik knew Shaw was giving her orders. What he did not know was where the man went once he was released. Maybe he would never know. The last time Shaw escaped, he was gone for two weeks and came back with an odd smile stretching his lips. He had told Emma: “I succeeded” just before he entered the tower and she locked the door behind him, the dark hole disappearing instantly.

That had been six years ago, and since then, Erik had not seen Shaw. He wondered if the strange man had finally died in his prison.

 

Erik reached the cottage. It was a simple house with bright white walls covered with ivy and a door painted in green. Built in the middle of a clearing, it came with a small kitchen garden and several fruit trees. Erik took an apple in passing – it would be his breakfast.

Then he stretched his arms and focused on the sword laid down besides his bed, inside the house. He could feel the long blade of steel, vibrating with force and danger, and the ornate hilt made of a rich alloy. With a push from his mind, he called for the sword and felt it lift off the ground and fly through the house. One of the windows was open and that was where it appeared, charging at him as if it wanted to pierce his flesh. It stopped short of his face. Erik smiled with triumph before he bit in the apple, letting the sword fall heavily on the grass. He sat besides the sharp blade and ate his fruit, waiting for the sun to finally reach the clearing and reflect his rays on the metal.

 

When the sky was light enough that darkness had withdrawn under the thick canopy of the forest, Erik stood up and levitated his sword to him.

His power had become a part of him. Some people could read and write – he had at least a minimum knowledge of that. Some could ride horses like the four legs were their own – he had practiced occasionally and, if he was not particularly good, he never fell and the animal followed his lead. Erik, from his part, could control metal. Simple as that. It was like another way of smelling or tasting things. The tingle at the back of his head told him if metal was around, and the vibration it caused in his nerves informed him of the kind of material the object was made of. Finally a sense akin to orientation told him where the object was exactly.

He had been trained many years by his mother to use his power efficiently after they had realized that he was not a normal child. The memory of the first time they faced his unique ability was still vivid in his mind.

 

Emma had been sewing new clothes, or repairing old ones, Erik could not remember. He was a little boy at the time, and was playing with wooden soldiers on the floor.

“Ouch,” his mother said suddenly. He looked up. She was sucking on her index finger, her eyes searching everywhere. “Where is that needle, now?”

He crawled on the parquet until he was at his mother’s feet. The needle was shining in his mind, like the sole star in an otherwise dark sky. He took it and held it out to Emma. “Did you not feel it, Mother? It was just there!”

The bewilderment on her face told him that no, she could not feel it, because she had not the same power. He was now afraid that his mother would think of him as a freak.

The surprise changed into amusement and pride in Emma’s eyes. Erik felt a sudden surge of love for that woman. He smiled at her and jumped in her arms. He then discovered that his mother had a power of her own.

 _‘You did well, Son. You are my little wonder,’_ he heard in his mind, the voice icy cold but the words tinted with warmth. He shivered at the feeling.

Later he learned that he could move the objects he felt without touching them. It was a matter of wishing that the item was somewhere else, of visualizing it, and it would happen.

His mother, each day, had presented him with new objects, sometimes smaller, sometimes bigger, and sometimes not metal at all even though they looked like it, and asked him to perform various tasks. When he succeeded, she took him in her arms and hugged him tightly. Once in a while he would even be rewarded with toys, or rare delicacies.

His mother’s love has always been conditioned with his ability. People loved him for his power, therefore he loved his power, and was proud of his Gifted condition.

 

Manipulating the sword in the air, he made it slash through nothing, imagining an assailant in front of him. The blade cut the hypothetical attacker from head to toe. Erik rejoiced in the illusion of his guts slipping through the wound, of his blood staining the ground. He did not like bloodsheds particularly, but one should be prepared to kill their enemy, or the enemy would kill them. That was the price to pay to stay alive in a hostile country.

He was interrupted in his training when Emma came out of the cottage.

“Good morning, Son,” she said with a smile. Her perpetually young face showed no wrinkle, her skin as pale and firm as in his first memory. He knew it was a projection from his mother’s mind. No one could stay young for twenty years, but she looked like his sister. Her curly blond hair was adorned with a fine gold chain supporting a brilliant crystal that shined in the middle of her forehead. Her delicate silhouette was emphasized with the white light cotton of her dress, her long limbs enhanced by the tight sleeves.

He knew he looked nothing like her. Mother and son were supposed to share a likeness of sort, but it was not the case. Maybe he got his looks from his father, but he did not know who his genitor was – he had suspected Shaw was his father when he was a young boy, but the idea had repulsed him, and he had soon realized the sheer impossibility of this: his mother would have never gotten intimate with a man like Shaw. He could see the lines of repulsion on her face when she had to let him go from his invisible prison.

He bowed in front of the woman, his sword floating gently besides him. “Good morning to you, my Lady and Mother.” She held her hand out to him, and he kissed it.

“I see you have trained well already, Son. Maybe you can use your training to hunt today.”

It was a regular task his mother assigned him. He hunted for their meat, once a week in the warm season, only once in winter, although he would bring a deer or a wild boar that would last them the whole season.

He nodded and called for his bow and arrows. He had to ornate the plain wooden bow with chunks of metal to be able to sense it with his power, same with his quiver.

Finally equipped, he said goodbye to his mother and went in the forest.

 

The most difficult part of hunting, for Erik at least, was keeping silent. The ground was covered with twigs and dried leaves, creaking and crunching under his shoes. That helped driving out the prey, but if they were small animals, they would instantly disappear under the bushes.

Bow and arrows ready at hand, Erik was quietly moving forward, listening intently for any sound betraying the presence of an animal.

That was how he heard the cries and the shouts further away in the forest. One of the voices sounded feminine, and Erik did not think twice before running for them, leaving his bow and his quiver behind. He could find them later.

He came out onto a small clearing. Two large men were roughing up a young woman with dark skin. His chivalry – a behavior his mother had taught him for years – made him unsheathed his sword.

“You will stop that, sir, or I will have to make you stop,” he called.

The men – both solid peasants with vacant eyes, except for the hate Erik could read in them – turned around and looked at Erik.

They oddly seemed not afraid of the shining blade he was brandishing. One of them snarled, revealing only a couple of teeth in the black hole of his mouth. “Do not wave your sword at us, young man. She should be the one at the end of your blade. She is not like us, you know.”

Presuming her dark skin was the cause of such a threat, Erik decided that it was not enough a reason to abuse a young woman. “I will do no such thing, peasant, and you shall go your way before I plunge my blade in your filthy blood.”

The men saw the determination in his grey eyes and decided to let it go. They raised their hands, palms towards him, to show that they were giving up. Erik did not trust them and approached them, the tip of his blade pointing at the guts of the more massive of the two men. With fear now in their beady eyes, they hastily retreated and left the clearing.

Erik could hear their cursing words full of hatred going away from him, deeply in the forest.

 

When he was sure they would not come back, Erik turned towards the dark-skinned woman. The poor creature was in shock, shivering and crying. He went to her.

“Do not fear, young woman, I made the hateful peasants go away.” He tentatively reached for her, moving slowly as to not scare her.

She opened her big teary eyes and looked at him for a second, before she started to wail anew. Erik panicked; he did not know what to do. She could be hurt and agonizing at the moment, and he had no idea how to help her.

Suddenly, she threw herself in Erik’s arms and hugged him tightly. Sheer panic gave place to utter embarrassment. He was oddly relieved when she finally let him go.

“I thank you, good sir,” she said with an accented voice. She knelt in front of him and brushed her lips on his knuckles.

“Oh no, no, you do not have to do that. I am just a humble hunter,” he replied, his cheeks burning. When he pulled his hand to himself, she let it go.

“Who do I have to thank, sir?” she asked.

In his still short life, he had not met with a lot of people, and not for years. Usually the people who came to their cottage knew Emma, and they never talked to him. The protocol of introducing himself was unknown to him. He answered: “I am the son of the Lady of the Lake.” That should do.

The woman gazed at him suspiciously. “I know no Lady of the Lake. What should I call you, sir? What is your name?”

The truth made him recoil: he did not know his name. His mother had always called him Son, and no one else had ever talked to him. Embarrassment was but a memory, he was now utterly petrified and felt lost. “I… do not know,” he answered truthfully, tears slowly filling his eyes.

Understanding the situation – or at least feeling that it was not wise to insist – the woman shrugged and held her hand to him. “My name is Angel. I am from the continent.”

He shook her hand, feeling marginally better.

 

They moved to a quiet part of the clearing, Angel sitting on the trunk of a dead tree. Minute by minute, her skin, which had been dull like ash after the assault, was recovering her caramel glow. She was a pretty young woman, notwithstanding the color of her flesh, which was still a wonder for Erik.

He was unsure of how to broach the subject, but his curiosity got the best of him. “Did those peasants attack you because of your dark skin?”

Her laugh echoed in the small clearing, chasing away birds nestled in the trees. “You do not see dark-skinned people every day in this country, do you?” She looked down at her shaking hands in her lap. “But no, that was not the reason they wanted to kill me.”

The probability of murder had never come to Erik’s mind. But of course, it made sense. The men had seemed much too hateful to just be willing to scare or hurt someone. He shivered. If he had not come to her rescue, she would be dead by now.

“I have… a gift,” she continued. “Unfortunately they witnessed me using it.”

“A gift?” he asked with excitement.

“Let me show you.” She stood up. Her flimsy dress barely covered her skin already, but she proceeded to remove her shoulders from the sleeves, revealing a bit more of brown flesh.

Not familiar with women’s nudity, Erik felt his cheeks burn again. He turned around, the rustling of her garment enough to ignite his imagination.

The sound was soon replaced by a strange buzz. He looked at her. She was floating a few inches above the ground. On her back, vibrating with power and projecting rays of pastel colors on the grass, two translucent butterfly’s wings had spread. It was magnificent.

 

She landed. Her wings remained widely open behind her, and Erik could not resist touching them. They felt like silk, soft and thin. Angel did not protest.

Finally, Erik faced her with excitement in his eyes and said: “I have a gift too.” His sword, which was laying down abandoned on the grass, got off the ground at his mental command and flew to them.

“It is amazing,” Angel said. “Can you move anything else in the clearing? A tree? A rock?”

“No, I can only move metal,” he answered, and snatched his sword in the air before sheathing it. “And my mother can read minds. Were your parents unable to help you with their own powers when you were attacked?”

Angel eyed him suspiciously. He did not know what to make of that look. “Is there a problem? Are your parents dead?”

“No, they are both alive and well. But they are not Gifted. They are humans,” she replied, feeling like she was explaining something to a three-year old. “Actually, I met with other people like us in the past few years. And all of them had human parents.”

The revelation cooled Erik’s blood. He had had some doubts all this years, but it was the first time he was confronted with the possibility of Emma not being his real mother.

They talked more, Angel sharing her experiences with other Gifted to a bewildered Erik.

He then offered her directions to his cottage, in case she wanted to visit him. But he knew she would not. Angel was an independent strong woman and did not need someone like Erik in her life. He would still be glad if he could meet with her again one day.

 

And he went back home, forgetting about his bow. It remained in the middle of the forest, covered with dead leaves and moss, for decades, before someone found it. Erik was already gone at the time. As was the wood of the bow. Who could be interested in small chunks of metal, really?

 

 

 

*****

 

“I see no game in your hands, Son, and no bow on your shoulder. Did something happen that I should know?” Emma asked when Erik arrived at the cottage. She was not worried, as Erik’s face showed no bruise or wound, but her senses were tingling without even using her power. Tension was radiating from him in waves that made her skin crawl when they reached her.

“Who am I, Emma?”

The determination in Erik’s eyes, and the use of her first name instead of Lady or Mother as he used to say, made Emma uncomfortable. She felt the time Shaw had warned her about had finally come. She would do as he had commanded.

“Come inside, Son. I shall tell you everything I know.” It was a blatant lie, and the word Son left a sour taste in her mouth as it was certainly the last time she would say it.

 

Once seated at their table, Erik repeated: “Who am I?”

“I do not know.” It was the very first lie of a long list, but they were necessary to achieve Shaw’s plan and get the Gifted where they deserved to be: at the top of the ladder.

Erik looked defeated. He had thought Emma had the answers to all of his questions, but it seemed not. “What do you know, then?”

“Twenty years ago, Shaw and I were wandering in the forest when we happened on your parents being killed in a clearing. You were with them. We could not stop the murderers from escaping, but we saw they were wearing King Claudas’ blazon on their shields.” Emma hoped that, as Shaw had thought at the time, the mention of a name, any name, would distract Erik’s thoughts from the fact that she alone could have stopped them if she had wanted to. She did not want to rearrange Erik’s memories once again to make him believe what she was saying, as she could easily damage everything she had done since then. Minds were tricky labyrinths hard to navigate, and even harder to transform.

“Just before their last breath,” she added, “your parents told us they were attacked because they had given birth to a very special child. Their death was a punishment for your gift.”

Hatred was burning inside grey pupils, and Erik’s desire for vengeance was a seed well planted that Emma would care for until it filled his mind completely.

“I was not able to learn your name though, and I am sorry for that. But maybe if you go to King Claudas, you will learn more about your lineage.”

 

In Erik’s now distorted mind, it made sense. He had seen how humans reacted to Gifted people. He had seen Angel in a difficult situation and had saved her. It was just as plausible that hateful humans would kill innocent parents for their Gifted infant.

He understood now why Emma had chosen a remote cottage to live in. Persecution everywhere. Because of a special power they did not choose to possess.

He stood up from his chair, lips twisted around a snarl full of rage. He unsheathed his sword and brandished it in front of Emma. “On my sword and my power, I swear I will find who my parents were and avenge them. And I will fight anyone who mistreats Gifted.”

He knelt before Emma and kissed her hand. “Thank you, my Lady, for taking care of me all this years. I will remain the Son of the Lady of the Lake even after I regain my name, and I will come back to you, as a Son to his Mother.”

And he left the cottage, starting his journey to his parents’ territory.

 

Inside the cottage, a unique tear fell down Emma’s cheek. Twenty years was a long time, and even an icy heart as hers could be moved by the sincere promises of a foster son. A beloved son. Whom she was manipulating for the sake of a new race.

She hoped her sacrifice was worth it.

 

 

 

*****

 

Outside the forest, a monk indicated to Erik the direction of King Claudas’ castle.

“It is five whole days of walk from here. Will you know where to rest, young man?” the old monk asked.

“I will sleep on the grass and eat fruits and roots if I have to,” Erik answered firmly.

A sweet little smile appeared on the monk’s lips. “You are a courageous man. What should I call you, as to praise your name everywhere?”

“I do not have a name, monk. And I need no praise. But I would appreciate a prayer, as my task is arduous and the result unknown.”

“You shall have all my prayers, young man.”

And Erik left him.

He reached Claudas’ fortress after the most tiring journey he ever made. The ground had been hard even for his young back, and someone his age and his height and weight needed more than berries and nuts to be sustained. Especially when one was walking restlessly from dawn till dusk for five whole days. He had been able to wash himself in a stream two days before but did not feel fresh anymore at this point.

He dreamed of a hot meal and a bed. Hopefully they would be provided in the city.

 

His first stop at the hamlet just outside the castle was for the nearest inn. It was still early and the tavern was empty. His arrival did not go unnoticed.

A stout woman with a dubious dishcloth in her hands welcomed him. Her round face showed no friendliness and she looked at him with suspicion. No doubt the fact that he did not have a horse was a matter of concern for her. Still she remained polite. “Hello, good sir. How can I help you?”

“I would like a room for a few nights, and a bath and a meal,” he replied honestly with his best smile.

He could see in her eyes that she thought he was a beggar of some sort and distrusted him. “You shall pay in advance, good sir. Three deniers for a night and two meals during the day. We have no bath but you will find a basin in your room. How long will you stay?”

The price was undoubtedly excessive, but he could not deny any longer the aches in his limbs and the growl of his stomach. He gave her three pieces. “I will pay you every morning, as I do not know how long I will stay yet.”

She bit in each piece and, apparently satisfied, took off to the back of the tavern without a word.

Erik followed her to a barely lit corridor. She stopped at the first door on the left and opened it. The room was not much bigger than a closet. It smelled of dust and filth. The mattress was grey with smudges of brown, and the sheets were so thin you could see through them. There was a dirty pot in a corner, directly on the ground, filled with cloudy water. From the window, Erik had an open view on the backyard where a couple of piglets were rolling happily in mud and shit. _‘Lovely,’_ he thought. If the food was as good as the room, three deniers was extremely expensive.

“The cook is not here yet, but I can give you a chunk of bread and some cheese,” she added, seemingly getting warmer to him. He had good money, he had become a customer instead of a possible thief.

“I will come in a minute, thank you, madam.”

She left silently, closing the door behind her.

Erik would wash away the sweat and the dirt from his tired body, then eat something, before crashing in the bed for the rest of the day. Tonight, his mission would begin.

 

When he woke up, the sky was not dark yet, but he did not think it was still the afternoon: Summer was around the corner, and the days were long and warm. Erik felt much better, so he had slept several hours at least; that meant it was somewhere in the evening.

Voices came from the tavern, laughs and muted conversations. The time had come for him to mingle with the hamlet’s inhabitants and maybe gather some intelligence about the King. He was definitely courageous, and wanted to avenge his parents more than anything, but Emma had not raised him as a reckless boy. He did not want to die in his mission.

The noises were louder and louder the more he approached the main room of the inn. Although it was most certainly time for supper, the customers sat at the tables had only wooden cups in front of them, filled with a wine that smelled like vinegar from where Erik stood. Drunkards were not the most reliable spies, but they were talkative.

Erik chose a table near the entrance and asked for his supper. The stout woman came with a piece of old bread and a bowl of stew. Strange chunks of dubious meat floated in a watered gravy. She filled his cup with wine. He started to eat, waiting for the right moment.

 

He was munching an apple the inn’s owner had obligingly brought him when he had asked for a dessert, when a couple of loud soldiers came through the door. Their shift had ended and they were here for an alcoholic evening to soothe the pains of the day.

Erik soon joined them with his own cup.

“I am looking for a temporary employment around here. Do you think I could be hired as a soldier by the King?” he asked when they had warmed to him. At this moment, there was probably more alcohol than blood running in their blood vessels. Awful wine slopped over the edge of the cups, the soldiers unable to maintain their balance.

“You seem fit enough, mate,” the older one answered. His deep green eyes could not focus long enough on Erik. He had removed his helmet when he had entered, revealing a mop of red hair and a sick complexion. Erik carefully stayed away from his stinky breath – caused by the huge gaps between his otherwise black teeth certainly.

“Yeah sure,” the other soldier approved. He seemed in a barely better shape than his colleague. Soldier was not a job for the weak, but it sure tired the men faster than it should. Or perhaps it was the bad wine and the long days of work.

Entering the guard was Erik’s best chance to approach the King. He was about to ask the name of the man he should see for employment when the red-haired soldier added with a vacant air: “Although the King does not need us as much as he did before, nowadays.”

That sparked Erik’s interest.

“Aya,” the younger soldier nodded. “It is because of the monster.” He sipped on his wine, staining his teeth in red for a few seconds. His sick smile made Erik shiver.

“The monster?”

“Aya, the man that looks like a lion or something. The King keeps it at his side at all times, and it is a killer. I saw it with my own eyes, tearing someone’s throat with his fangs.”

“I would be afraid if it was not chained to the throne. Like an untrained dog.” The red-haired soldier burst out laughing, exposing his bad denture to Erik who grimaced.

A Gifted. Erik was seething with rage. The King kept a Gifted as a slave. Claudas was now doubly guilty in Erik’s standards. The scum would pay. Erik was determined.

 

He went to bed, nauseous and dizzy. The combination of wine and proof of Gifted’s abuse made the chunks of meat he had eaten earlier move in his stomach. The night promised to be long and unpleasant.

 

 

 

*****

 

Five days into his job and Erik was exhausted.

He had to wake up with the sun – that was not unusual for him, but to stay up and alert until supper proved to be a real challenge. And the soldiers’ lodgings were barely better than the inn. The rooms were small and Spartan. At least there was a bath. And he had meat twice a day.

No one had needed his name when he had enrolled and being called soldier like any recruit assured him to remain anonymous for the duration of his mission.

Although he had noticed weird looks from the older servants. They always glanced at him with awe and, strangely enough, nostalgia and sadness. He had not dared asking them why they looked at him in this way. He wanted to stay as invisible as possible.

 

Twice already he had worked in the throne’s hall, and had met with the King. Today was the third.

He had to stand near the King’s escape door. The main entrance was guarded from outside by two other soldiers. A few feet from Erik, the King was sitting on the throne, a heavily decorated chair with a dark red velvet seat.

Claudas was a stocky man with a silver mane, and a large beard covered half of his face. He resembled the giants from the legends, or maybe a scary ogre. And his constant frown could not persuade Erik that he was not.

His strong deep voice resonated in the hall when he called for his enslaved Gifted. “Sabretooth! Come here, my boy!”

The tall Gifted walked to Claudas until the King pulled on his chain. Sabretooth fell on his knees, and with his muscled body and his long unruly hair, he definitely looked like an animal. The growl that escaped from his throat made most of the staff tremble like leaves in the wind. Now on all fours, he crawled to the throne, his claws clicking on the tiled floor of the hall. Once at Claudas’ feet, he coiled in a ball like a big feline, keeping an eye on his surroundings.

That a man, a full grown man – although young – would be forced to sleep on the floor, made Erik enraged. He did not know what power the King had over the poor Sabretooth, but he was determined to free him, whatever it took.

But Erik would have to fight the Gifted first if he wanted to kill Claudas, as Sabretooth was an effective bodyguard for the King. And judging from the toned muscles of the man, Erik would have to use all of his own power to defeat him.

 

A good opportunity to achieve the mission he had assigned to himself presented itself later that day.

The throne hall was empty except for Erik, Sabretooth and the King. Claudas was dozing, his large head resting on his hand. Sabretooth was pacing at the other end of the hall, sometimes looking out of the window. Boredom was written all over his face, his bestial features somehow softened.

No one was expected for hours.

Erik had waited for a moment like this one since he joined the guard. The only danger came from Sabretooth, but he knew exactly how to get rid of him.

When he thought he had waited long enough, Erik used his power to lift the heavy chain off the ground and wrapped it around the tall Gifted and one of the massive pillars of the hall, effectively immobilizing him far away.

Sabretooth growled out of rage, and Erik could feel the Gifted’s muscles straining against the metal of the rings. The strength of Sabretooth was amazing. His fury too. His fangs seemed to grow longer and pointier, and his eyes were burning with a barely contained wrath.

The noise woke up Claudas, but Erik was fast: he was on the King, his dagger under Claudas’ throat, in an instant.

“Sabretooth!” Claudas whined, desperate and pathetic. He could not see his slave surrounded by his own chain from where he sat.

Erik grinned. “He cannot help you, Claudas. You are at my mercy.”

“And who are you, soldier?” The contempt in the King’s voice threw Erik in a new fit of anger. He glided the dagger across Claudas’ right palm, slashing the flesh before putting back the blade under the King’s hairy chin.

The scream that escaped the King’s throat was full of pain and terror.

“That is exactly the reason I am here and I am threatening you. I want to know who I am,” Erik replied.

“And why should I know when I have never seen you before?” Claudas asked, voice shaking and fear in his eyes.

“But you knew my parents. They were killed twenty years ago.”

“I do not know what you…” Claudas started, but stopped as he looked at Erik’s face with more attention. He burst out laughing when he realized who was threatening him. “You look like your father, young man. I should have recognized you. Forgive me.”

“Who am I?” Erik asked desperately. He was ashamed his misery could be heard in his voice, but he was so close to the truth he could not help himself.

Tables had turned, and Claudas knew he had the upper-hand. He would not surrender without fighting. “Why would I tell you? I do not react well to threats.” He defiantly stood up, looking Erik in the eyes, clearly stating that he was not afraid of the soldier anymore.

Erik brandished his sword. He felt his hands wavering, but he hoped the fierceness of his face would convince Claudas of the reality of the threat. “If you do not tell me, I shall… I will…” He was at a loss for words. His chance of learning his name was quickly disappearing, like sand spilling from his hand.

A sudden racket came from the other end of the hall. Sabretooth had taken advantage of Erik’s weakness to free himself from the chain’s constriction and was now running to them.

Erik looked away from the King and focused on Sabretooth’ manacles, maintaining him away.

The distraction had renewed Erik’s awareness of his goal. He jumped on the King and put his sword against the man’s large throat. “Do tell me who I am, or I shall carve a new smile on your face with my blade.”

But Claudas would not surrender yet. He called out: “Sabretooth! Come and help me!”

Erik could feel the manacles staying in place, thanks to his power, and was not worried. “You should be ashamed of the way you are using him.”

Claudas frowned with outrage despite his situation. “I can do whatever I want with him. I OWN HIM!” he finished shouting.

Fury burned deeply in Erik’s bones. “YOU CANNOT OWN A MAN!” he replied, spiting in Claudas’ face.

A growl came from much nearer than it should, when Erik was keeping the manacles in place. Turning around, Erik saw Sabretooth running to him, a bloody stump ending his right arm. Under the manacle still floating in the air, a furry hand with claws lay on the red-stained tiles. Sabretooth’s fangs were covered with blood. His own blood. He had gnawed off his own hand to escape.

In a surge of self-preservation, Erik pushed away from the throne, falling on his back, and tried to crawl back and stand up as fast as humanly possible. He wanted to be on his feet to fight the Gifted.

But when he looked back, Sabretooth was jumping on Claudas, tearing his throat with his fangs. Blood gurgled in the man’s mouth before he was no more. The King was dead. Killed by his own monster.

Sabretooth stood up, covered with gore, and looked at the body without pity.

Erik hesitated before he raised his voice: “Will you kill me too?” The question was stupid, but fear and exhaustion had made him incoherent.

“I will not. You gave me the courage to stand up for myself after all this years of enslavement. It would not be fair.” The bestial man turned to Erik. “And it is my first time meeting with someone gifted with an unnatural power like me. Mine is fast healing.” He lowered his eyes on his stump, and Erik stared with him: the stump was slowly growing into a full hand.

“But why would you let that despicable human treat you like a beast?” Erik inquired.

“He was my father. I thought he had the right.”

If that did not explain everything, it was still enough for Erik.

A fragile hope kept burning in his heart and he did not want to let it go yet. He turned to Sabretooth. “Would you, by any chance, know who I am?” he finally asked.

Without looking at him, the tall Gifted answered: “I understand the reason behind your attack on my father. Unfortunately, only he knew your identity. I cannot help you. And I am sorry.” Although his voice did not waver, Erik heard his sincerity.

He slipped away, leaving Sabretooth to the mourning that would undoubtedly follow.

 

Erik still ignored his real name, and he did not know who else could help him now that King Claudas was dead. And the bastard had known the truth. Erik had been so close… At least his mission had been partially accomplished: he had avenged his parents, even though he did not know who they were.

He was wandering the corridors, looking for a discreet exit, when an old woman stopped him.

“Come with me, young Prince. Soldiers are already running around looking for you. They know the King is dead,” she said before taking him to a small door hidden behind a heavy curtain.

He followed her. She guided him in a dark tunnel to another door. When she opened it, the bright glow of the sun blinded him for a second. They were outside in the gardens. The door was concealed by a bush of roses. He would not come out of it without a scratch, but he was still alive and that was already a miracle.

“I thank you very much, madam,” he said warmly.

She curtsied and was about to enter the castle again when he remembered something she had said. He grasped her arm. “You called me ‘young Prince’. Do you know who I am?”

“Of course, Sir. You are King Lehnsherr’s and Lady Lehnsherr’s only son. When Claudas the Vile took their crown, we thought you were all dead. But when Hilda saw you days ago, we knew Claudas’ reign was about to end. You will come back to your people, will you not, young Prince?”

Erik was overwhelmed. He now knew whom he was the son of. And he was a Prince. But he did not know those people. He did not feel anything for them. “And my name. What is my name?” he asked.

“Erik. Erik Lehnsherr is your name, good Prince,” she answered with a frown.

“Erik. My name is Erik,” he repeated dreamily. He looked at the gardens – at his gardens. The castle, the hamlet, everything was his. But it was insignificant. Those people had let a despicable man rule them for years, had let him mistreat a Gifted – one of his people – for as long. They did not deserve his pity or his time.

He bowed quickly and left without another word. He had to go back home. To his mother. To the Lady of the Lake.

 

He was Erik Lehnsherr, and he had decided his purpose in life was to fight for his people, the Gifted.

 

 

 

*****

 

He had found a horse and the journey back to the lake was shorter. He was just slightly tired since he had not slept for two days. But he would have a good night of rest in his own bed.

Emma was sitting in front of the house when he arrived. She leveled her eyes to him but did not say a word.

He dismounted and tied the horse to a tree before coming to her. He knelt. “I am Erik Lehnsherr and you are my mother,” he said.

“You are truly Erik Lehnsherr, although you know by now that Emma is not your mother, Erik,” a voice coming from inside the house said. Shaw appeared from the darkness of the cottage. His face was strongly marked by his age, and his hair was now completely white.

“You knew, and you did not tell me or my mother,” Erik snarled.

“I know everything, but not everyone is worthy of my knowledge. Your adventure with King Claudas was a necessary trial. You are now able to join us in our battle against humans.”

Erik stared at him with disbelief. He had let a Gifted kill his father, and that man thought it had been necessary.

“You understand that humans mistreat us, Erik.”

It was not a question, but Erik answered anyway: “Some of them, yes, I understand.”

Shaw pierced Erik with his pale blue eyes. “Then you will help us. Your destiny is to bring the Gifted to the place they deserve.”

Erik distrusted the Wizard. But he could not deny what he had seen: humans persecuting Gifted, using them as beasts or monsters. Humans killing their own species because of Gifted children. If he could help his own people, he would do it. “What should I do, Mighty Wizard?”

“You shall join King Charles’ court at Westchester. And you shall convince him to search for the Holy Grail with you. The sacred chalice will give power to the Gifted, and punish humans for their arrogance.”

Shaw went into the house for a second before coming out with clothes in his arms. “Tomorrow, you will wear this. You will take your horse and go with Emma to Westchester where you will become one of the Knights of the Round Table.” He held the clothes out to Erik, who took them.

Shaw patted his shoulder. “You will not disappoint me or your mother, Erik.”

It was not a threat, it was a promise, and Erik believed him.

 

Tomorrow he will go. But for now, his bed was calling to him. He crashed on it and slept for twelve hours.


	6. The White Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was an awfully long delay... I can't even promise it won't happen ever again. What I CAN promise is that I'll finish the story.
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> As always, thanks to [luninosity]() for betaing it. All remaining mistakes are mine.

On the top of its wooded hill, Westchester was looking down on its territory.

Freezing winters had imprisoned its stones in sarcophagi of ice, and summers had bathed its white walls with sun, but nothing had weakened its strength yet, or diminished its beauty. It was the King of Britain’s castle, and it was prestigious.

It was still young – especially as it intended to last for centuries – but it knew lots of secrets. The white walls had ears and they listened. They repeated what they heard to the Wind, so the news could fly over the country. Hopefully someone, somewhere, was listening to them and made them known to their fellow citizens. Although Westchester had little hope. People were not listening to the Wind anymore.

 

The castle knew about everything: conspiracies and affairs, hates and loves, wars and marriages. Only one other person knew as much, if not more. The young King, Charles, could pluck out the news directly from minds. Westchester was aware of the King’s power because its white walls had listened to the young man complaining about his ability at night, crying in his pillow or throwing it at them in a fit of ire or frustration.

Apart from the gift that was a burden to Charles, the young King seemed perfect as a ruler. Westchester was quite happy that a good sovereign had succeeded King Xavier. The same aura of peacefulness and brightness surrounded both men. King MacTaggert had been a good regent, but he had always thought in terms of the temporary. As if he had been afraid to make a decision that would not please Charles when he would take the crown. At least the kingdom had not suffered from his feebleness.

And those ages had come to an end two years ago, in a coronation ceremony that everyone in the Holy Land was remembering with fondness. Including Westchester.

 

 

*****

 

For four years, King MacTaggert had been a good teacher for Charles. The boy had learned weaponry and politics. Diplomacy and hunting. Riding horses, and economics. The King of Cameliard was confident: Charles was a natural.

At sword training, he would always anticipate his opponent’s next move. Or the direction the prey he was hunting would take.

Charles’ intelligence allowed him to understand politics and economics in all their subtleties.

His charm was a decisive advantage in diplomacy. And he could seduce any animal into obedience: horses were no exception.

 

The regent watched the young man he had trained swirl his sword with grace and strength, without any useless move ever – Charles thrust Excalibur only if he was sure he would touch his opponent. And he very rarely missed. Of course thick armor protected him and his fencing master. The point of those lessons was not to let either the young King or the knight teaching him be hurt.

After one last attempt at avoiding one of Charles’ hits, the master removed his helmet and called the end of the training. He bowed respectfully and left the field.

Charles took off his own armor before coming to MacTaggert. The regent nodded politely, a warm smile on his lips.

“Good afternoon, dear friend,” Charles said, seizing MacTaggert’s right palm between his own two hands and shaking it cheerfully.

“Good afternoon, Sir.” It was still difficult for the old King to be completely at ease with Charles. He loved him like a son, but Charles was also King of Britain, and duty required for MacTaggert to keep his distance and obey the man in everything. Not an easy task when Charles treated him more like a companion, a confidant, a friend. But starting tomorrow, they would have no choice: after Charles’ coronation, King MacTaggert would return to Cameliard.

 

A squire chose that moment to join them. “Excuse me, my Lord. King MacTaggert. The clothier has arrived and is waiting in your room.” The shy boy bowed and disappeared in an instant.

Charles rolled his eyes and sighed. “Would you join me in the torture chamber?” he asked the regent.

MacTaggert laughed at the jest. “Do not be so melodramatic, my Lord. You are in dire need of a rich costume for your big day tomorrow.”

“Ah but I feel ashamed to spend my subjects’ good money on stupid things like clothes.”

MacTaggert understood it was a real preoccupation for the young man. “Charles, please allow me to speak frankly.”

“You do not have to ask, my friend! I want you to always spill your heart to me.”

The regent took Charles’ elbow and guided him politely to the King’s private apartment. “Of course your costume tomorrow will say nothing of your skills. But many Lords and Kings in Britain do not want to accept you as their true sovereign yet.” They crossed the path of a couple of Knights in the brightly lit corridors of the castle, and saluted them with a wave or a nod, but never stopped. MacTaggert kept talking, voice low as if revealing a secret. “The way you handle your coronation will be critical. They want you to look young and lost and incapable. If you appear in a regal outfit, confident and proud, they will have nothing to say. And when you start your reign, they will know you are the True King of Britain.”

They stood in front of the doors to Charles’ room. Charles was looking in the regent’s eyes, searching for something he may have found when his face lit with a smile. “You are definitely right. Now if you excuse me, I have to see what horrors the sewers have made this time.” After a quick bow, he disappeared in his apartment.

A full minute later, MacTaggert was still in front of the closed doors. The young man was exceptional. MacTaggert was proud and honored to have met him and helped him grow into the fine King he was now. And he was immensely sad to have to depart with him.

But he had one last request. He was sure Charles would agree.

 

He was back first thing in the morning the next day. He stood just outside Charles’ room, waiting for him to go out, his back pressed against the cold white stone of the walls.

He did not wait for long, and soon the doors opened, pushed by two radiant lackeys in rich costumes. Behind them, Charles came out like the sun between two clouds, both beautiful but rather dull in comparison. There was no smile on his lips. The dark blue velvet of his attire brought out the pale color of his eyes and lit a determined and cold glow in his pupils. White tights covered his strong legs and his muscled arms appeared through large gaps in his sleeves. He was followed by a long blue cape trimmed with ermine fur. Charles looked magnificent and imposing, his gait solemn.

Everything changed in an instant when his eyes fell on MacTaggert waiting for him. The grin which showed up on his face made him look impossibly young. Sometimes MacTaggert had to remind himself that Charles was only eighteen, but usually one glance at his bright innocent eyes and open expression were enough. MacTaggert’s fear of Charles not being taken seriously was real and gnawing at his guts. It was possible the old King was even more nervous than Britain’s future sovereign at the prospect of the coronation. But it was already far too late to postpone it: it would be today or never. And Charles’ countenance displayed nothing of his stress, so nothing could go wrong.

The young man walked to him, arms open and inviting. Forgetting all his reservations and principles, MacTaggert took Charles in his embrace, trying to convey his strength and his confidence in his soon-to-be King.

The gesture surprised Charles, who remained stiff for a second before he melted between the strong and warm arms, closing his eyes in contentment. Charles’ thoughts fled to Antor, the hard-working lumberjack who had raised him for so many years. That was the moment he realized that, despite the awkwardness which had punctuated their relationship of four years, MacTaggert stood as his second father - or more like the third, even if Charles had never known his real parents. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

Even under the kind stares of the valets, the hug soon became embarrassing, and they parted, Charles with a little smile and MacTaggert clearing his throat. The young King swipped his face with the back of his hand.

“Dear friend, I am so glad to see you before the ceremony. I am afraid we will not have much time together during the festivities.”

“We will have even less time than you think, Charles,” MacTaggert replied. He added sadly: “I will leave as soon as you are pronounced King.”

“Are you displeased with me?” He did not remember anything he had done that could have triggered MacTaggert’s departure. Was the man disappointed in him? Yet he had followed every instruction the old King had given him for four years. He respected his knowledge and experience, and knew he needed his wise advices to become the good King he wanted to be.

MacTaggert disabused him quickly. “No. No, no, my young lad. I am extremely proud of you.” He put his hands on Charles’ shoulders in a friendly manner. “As a matter of fact, I regard you as my son. Only my respect for the Crown of Britain keeps me from acting as if it was true.”

Charles’ cheeks almost darkened with the confession.

But MacTaggert, after squeezing slightly, let him go and turned away from him. “You have learned everything I had to teach. And my kingdom is asking for me. It is with a heart full of sorrow that I will leave Westchester before noon.”

Charles lowered his head in defeat. “I understand, dear friend. But it will not be said that King Charles had been ungrateful.” A new determination lit the young man’s eyes. “Request, and I will do as you wish. It will be my first act as King of Britain.”

“I knew you were a good boy, and a reliable friend. There is something that you could do, that would bind both our families together,” MacTaggert replied.

“Speak.”

“I would like you to marry my daughter.”

 

Charles knew Moira very well. They had been raised together for almost four years, and had shared many things: joy and sadness, anger and comfort. She was a sister more than a friend.

She had arrived at Westchester one winter morning, wrapped in fur and wool, mounting a black stallion. She had come from Cameliard on horseback with her chambermaid and her governess, even though she was only twelve. Charles had been impressed by her toughness and her courage. And she had not changed much since that first meeting.

One evening, Charles had asked MacTaggert why his daughter had come and not his wife. “Because as much as I love my wife, I know I can stand not seeing her for a long period of time. But I cannot bear to be away from my precious sunshine for four years,” he had answered, before adding: “And I want her to learn as much as possible about governing. Westchester is a good place for her to be.”

Charles had since found out about MacTaggert’s peculiar views. The old King sincerely thought a woman could play an important part in today’s politics, and not only as a ransom to obtain peace between two kingdoms at war. And so she was highly educated and even versed in some forms of warfare.

Puberty had hit her two years before, and she was now a beautiful young lady of sixteen, with her oval face framed by chocolate tresses, hazel eyes like two dark gems against her porcelain skin.

Charles objectively knew she was pretty, but she did not interest him as a woman. She was the person he had gone to when he missed his former life as Antor and Aenor’s son. She was first at wishing him a happy birthday or a merry Christmas. They spent hours in the gardens surrounding Westchester, sitting on the grass and making crowns of wild flowers. She was his comfort when his life as King-to-be became unbearable.

 

If he was to marry her, she would remain as such, a support and a strong ally. He could not think of a better wife. He had only one answer for MacTaggert. “It would be my pleasure to marry Moira.”

To Charles’ surprise, the old King fell on his knees and lowered his head. “I feel most honored, my King.”

“Do not act as a liege. You are now my father. Come and hug me,” Charles said, opening his arms.

MacTaggert hesitated an instant, then stood up and walked to Charles. He embraced him fiercely, pouring all his repressed feelings into it.

And if a tear rolled down the old man’s cheek, it was quite understandable.

A valet cleared his throat, leading the two men to end the hug.

“Right,” Charles said while readjusting his tunic, “I think it is time to go. Care to join me?”

“I will follow you and be at the back of the church,” MacTaggert replied.

Charles turned to his pages: “If you please.” Each man took a corner of the cape with sincere reverence and waited for their King.

MacTaggert cleared the path with a bow, gloved right hand on his heart. Charles passed him with a smile before his expression went cold again. MacTaggert did not see it, raising his eyes only when the King was five feet away from him and following him to his Destiny.

 

In Westchester’s chapel, Kings and Queens, Knights and Ladies, but also farmers and craftsmen and humble people, were all assembled in a joyous crowd. It seemed that, with the prospect of the coronation of a new King, the boundaries between social classes had vanished, everyone here hoping to witness the birth of a new era.

Some noblemen were looking at the colorful mob with disdain, and more so at the idea of having the son of a lumberjack sitting on the throne of England. Urien of Gorre and King Lot were devising how to get rid of this surely unreliable King when the heavy black doors opened.

Musicians next to the altar started to play a solemn march while little girls - princesses and noble children - dressed in white walked up the nave, throwing rose petals along the way. Charles followed in his regal attire, the wooden soles of his pattens clicking loudly on the stone floor of the chapel and effectively silencing the crowd. The lackeys released the corners of the long cape as soon as they reached the threshold of the church and took their place at the door. MacTaggert went to the back of the crowd, against the wall, watching his young protégé walk to the altar.

Westchester’s chapel was a glorious one. Its white walls - as white as the rest of the castle - were adorned with colorful paintings of saints and angels. A bas-relief of Jesus’ life went around the room at eye-level. Behind the altar was a portrait of King Xavier being crowned, in blue and red and gold. Statues of Virgin Mary and Jesus stood next to the altar, where the Archbishop was waiting for the new King under a great crucifix.

 

The ceremony bored MacTaggert very fast. However he stayed to honor Charles, until the Archbishop put the crown on his head and the crowd exulted.

 

The King of Britain nodded toward his subjects, failing to keep a cold expression when so much joy overwhelmed him. Charles could feel happiness rippling through the chapel in great waves, with the odd resentment drowned in a sea of hope.

When the musicians began to play a merry song, Charles walked back to the chapel’s doors. On his right, he saw Moira who was smiling at him. A litany of ‘ _amazing_ ’, ‘ _wonderful_ ’, ’ _magnificient_ ’ and ‘ _proud_ ’ could be heard in her mind, and it filled the young King with affection, if not with love. Remembering his promise to marry her, he bowed before Moira and held out his hand, which she took with a curtsey.

His betrothed by his side, Charles exited the chapel, on the path to his new life.

 

 

*****

 

From her window, Raven was looking at the waves crashing against the cliff of Tintagel. Since her father’s departure and subsequent death, Duchess Sharon, her mother, had lived in great despair, ignoring her own daughter’s.

 

It had been the middle of the night when Sharon Marko had received words of her husband’s demise by a messenger. Her wails had woken up the young Raven, who had fled to her mother’s room, only to be refused the entry at the door. From behind Isolda, she had watched the usually composed lady tearing her hair out and scratching her bosom.

“I cannot live without him,” she was crying. “He was not supposed to know!”

She had seen the small figure of her child and had run to her. “You, demon! It is because of you that my dear Kurt is now lying in his blood!”

While Isolda retained the Duchess, a young chambermaid had taken Raven back to her room. In the comfort of her own bedroom, the young girl had reflected on her mother’s distress. It had pleased her in a way, but Sharon’s harsh words had hurt her even more, and her rage had blossomed once again at the Duchess’ selfishness.

 

Until the truth hit her, like a stone the surface of a lake, creating ripples and waves, each one drowning her in sorrow. ' _I am the cause of my father’s death,_ ' she thought sadly.

The man had been mean and even violent sometimes, but he was still a pillar in her life: it was better to be ignored than hated or belittled. The rude Kurt Marko had been a better parent for Raven than Sharon. With him, she had learned strength and confidence.

And now he was gone.

 

For many days and nights, she had cried, until she could not shed another tear. Her nurse had comforted her; she had not seen her mother at all. It had taken two whole months for Duchess Sharon to demand to see her daughter, and since then their relationship had been cold at best. She had seen the change in her mother: she kept silent, she spent whole afternoons under her favorite elm, and she started drinking ale all day long. Often at supper, Raven would join Sharon in the dinning room and the Duchess would be incoherent and spiteful, her breath stinking of alcohol.

Raven had accepted it as her lot, her punishment for the ruin she had brought on the family, and for the death of so many brave men on the battlefield.

 

They had learned about Excalibur and the True King, about King Charles and MacTaggert’s regency. But they were cut off from the world on their arid cliff. In quarantine. They received messages, but no one ever visited them. They became pariahs.

It did not help with Duchess Sharon’s state of mind, and soon she drowned herself in ale and wine, to never emerge again.

When the news of Charles’ upcoming coronation reached Tintagel, Raven was wearing black: Sharon Marko, Duchess of Tintagel, had been dead for three months, choked to death with her own vomit.

 

The messenger did not come alone.

 

 

*****

 

Charles had hoped that MacTaggert would still be here when he exited the chapel. Unfortunately, the man was nowhere to be found and Charles had to accept that he was long gone. It was even more painful now that he had the daughter of his benefactor at his side.

‘ _Farewell, my good friend,_ ’ he thought warmly. It was time to enjoy the festivities of his own coronation.

 

Without much consulting him, MacTaggert and his counselors had organized a tournament. It was meant to be a way for Charles to choose new participants for the Round Table and to finally assert himself as the True King.

Most of the chairs at the Round Table had been vacant for four years - since many brave and fearless Knights and Kings had been killed at the battle of Glastonbury, the place now known as the Burial of the Fair King. The dead had been honored in many ways, and a plaque with their names was adorning the center of the Table. It was time to fill the void they had left. And a tournament, where all kinds of warriors would show off their skills, was the perfect way to choose the best Knights of the Holy Land.

Charles had to differ, even if he did it silently. The ambition of sitting at the Round Table darkened the minds of most of the men who had paraded on horseback in front of Charles’ tent, clothed in magnificient armors, proud and pretentious. But Charles had a hard time finding any redeeming quality in those powerful men seeking more power and wealth and glory. How was he supposed to rule this country when no one beside him actually care for it?

Disheartened, Charles resolved to watch this parody of war and to let his advisors decide who had more merit.

 

Charles would have loved to be alone with Moira to express his admiration and loyalty to her father. Unfortunately, the remnants of King Xavier’s Round Table were in the tent with him. Lot of Orkney, Urien King of Gorre, King Enion, Sir Caradoc and Sir Griflet were among them, with half a dozen other Lords whose names Charles could not recall. Merry and confident, they were commenting on the tournament in a loud voice. One person was missing: the King of Cornwall. Charles could not fathom the reason behind his absence; Lord Edern had always been faithful to the Crown under MacTaggert’s regency.

A young squire brought fruits and refreshments for all of them and was welcomed with cheers. He put the tray on a table and left the tent.

He was not gone for half a minute when the walls flapped again, letting inside Edern of Cornwall. He bent before Charles and fell on his knees.

“Pray forgive my absence at your glorious coronation, my King,” he said, staring at the dirt floor.

With a wave of his hand, Charles commanded him to stand. “You must have a reason.”

With a nod, Edern replied: “I have, my Lord. I fetched the child of the man responsible for King Xavier’s death, as I thought it was my duty to bring her to your Justice on the day of your coronation.” He whistled, and two soldiers entered, a young girl of sixteen between them.

 

Her appearance of utter distress - as well as her silent laments - moved Charles, who ordered the soldiers to remove her chains and blindfold. They did, and as soon as the girl laid her eyes on him, she started to wail. Sensible enough not to intrude on this young woman’s sadness with his mind-reading power, Charles was still curious about what grieved her so much.

“What is your name, my Lady, and why are you crying?” he inquired.

“I am Raven – snif - M-m-marko, daughter of the D-duke of Tinta-ha-gel. My f-f-father declared war on – snif - King Xavier and defea-hee-ted him, dying o-ho-n the battlefield a-ha-s a punishment, four – snif - years ago. I am now – snif - despised and shamed f-for what Duke Marko did. A-ha-s for my cries, I canno-ho-t tell you, my – snif - Lord.” She wailed anew.

Charles recalled MacTaggert’s teachings about King Xavier’s demise, but could not refrain his empathy towards the young woman. He rose from his wooden throne and walked to Raven. He chose to show kindness by taking her hands in his own. “I do not blame you for your father’s abuses, fair Lady. Please, tell me what grieves you.”

Raven looked straight in his eyes and whispered: “I know who you are, and it pains me so much to see your face.”

 

The revelation made Charles’ heart skip a beat. He who had wondered who might be his parents as soon as he had discovered that Antor and Aenor were not, was suddenly on the verge of learning the truth of his birth. That it would come from this girl seemed only fitting: in bringing Death on King Xavier, her father had sealed his fate.

He knelt at her feet and insisted: “Who am I?”

“You look so much like my mother, Duchess Sharon. You must be my brother,” she answered.

The Knights surrounding them, who had kept silent until then, reacted loudly to the discovery.

“We cannot accept the son of King Xavier’s murderer as our King !” Lot of Orkney declared. The man seemed happy to finally find a way to reject Charles as his True King.

Urien joined him in an instant: “He should be deposed, and a new King crowned.”

“You do not understand! The King’s father was King Xavier,” Raven cried. She then proceeded to narrate how the birth of her brother happened, and related Shaw’s kidnapping.

Seeing his last hope fading fast, King Lot spoke out: “You might be a liar! What proof do you have?”

 

Flittering thoughts escaped Raven’s distressed mind. Even through Charles’ barrier, he could hear her : ‘ _I cannot_ ’, ‘ _everything will be over_ ’, and ‘ _does he deserve my sacrifice?_ ’ The young King could not comprehend her struggles, but he wanted to help her make a decision. “Lady Raven, you do not have to answer if you do not want. I shall find another way to prove my lineage.”

The blonde girl stared at him as if he had sprouted a pair of wings, like an angel; it could well be the case if her renewed confidence was any indication. She turned to the Lords and Kings looking at her with suspicion and smiled defiantly. Her fair skin rippled, showing blue scales and fierce red hair before she took the appearance of an older woman of severe countenance. Notwithstanding her long blonde hair and her feminine features, she looked remarkably like Charles. A voice deep and slightly cracked came from the long pale throat: “I hate that wizard. Shaw stole my baby. Knowing he was the son of King Xavier instead of my beloved husband does not even lower my pain.” She changed back into the young Raven.

 

King Charles’ guests stood bemused at the show until Urien declared: “Witchcraft!”

Charles stopped them unsheathing their swords “No one will harm this young lady.”

Grumbling and groaning, they obeyed, but Urien and Lot, outraged, left the tent altogether.

 

The revelation had left Charles breathless. ‘ _I really have a mother and a father now. I even have a sweet sister! Is there anyone as happy as me? I doubt it._ ’ And more: ‘ _I am not alone. There are other people with strange powers like me._ ’ For so many years he had felt lonely. He was a freak of Nature, a prank from God. Maybe his ability was the reason his parents had abandonned him. But now he knew it was not the truth. Shaw was, once again, the one to blame, the thorn in his side.

Then came the terrible realization. ‘ _If my father was King Xavier, that means I am already fatherless when I just learned his name._ ’ The weight of his loss made him shed a tear.

There was still one hope of complete happiness. He turned to Raven and asked her: “When will I see my mother?” he asked.

Raven looked at him, her tortured soul making her eyes glimmer. She said nothing. Still Charles refused to search through the mind of the defenseless young girl. She had been violated enough, being brought here in chains, dreading her uncertain fate. He took her hands in his, and whispered: “Do not be afraid, sister. Tell me.”

She tried to dislodge her hands. Failing to do so, she fell on her knees and started to cry. “Your – our mother is dead, my Lord.”

 

King Charles went pale. He felt his heart miss a beat, his chest closing on it like an iron fist. He was an orphan. Yes, his late father’s identity made him the legitimate King of the Holy Kingdom, but what good did it do for him? Antor and Aenor lived far away. MacTaggert had abandoned him. He was alone. And not even the young sister he had discovered could change that fact. Not yet, when he did not know her. He was going to love her dearly, but it would take time.

 

Distrustful voices around him woke him from his daydream. He blinked once, shook his head. He was a King, and he was a brother. His dutiful nature told him what to do. And he could not lose the last person of his blood, the last member of his already decimated family. He knelt beside Raven and took her in a hug. The invisible fingers of his power probed Raven's mind, tasting the sourness of her sorrow, brushing against her thoughts carefully. ' _You are not the only one with a power. Do not fear._ '

She raised her eyes, searching the truth in his face, a proof that the words she heard were not a figment of her imagination. Charles smiled reassuringly.

 

He stood up and turned to his assembly of noble men. They were arguing about which fate Raven Marko deserved. "She must be put to death by fire. She is a witch !" some said. "She is a liar and a traitor. Hang her !" others replied. Their opinions diverged on which death fit her crimes, but they agreed that the young woman should be executed. Charles put himself between the angry Knights and her sister, the golden barrier of his crown his only protection against their fury – and their fear ; Charles could feel the cold dread swirling around them. They did not understand Raven's amazing prowess. A small part of him was glad he had kept the secret of his own skill.

Charles unsheathed Excalibur. In the shadow of the tent, the sword shone like the sun and blinded every Knight standing there. Raven, still sitting on the ground, covered her eyes with a pale hand. Charles did not even blink: he was used to the brightness of Excalibur. One of the first training he had endured under MacTaggert's responsibility.

"No harm will be done to my sister. She will remain under my protection at Westchester. That will now be her home. So commands your rightful King."

Charles' powerful stare and the menace of Excalibur brought silence under the tent. One after another, the remaining Knights of the Round Table knelt at Charles' feet, laying down their swords on the dirt as a sign of respect and obedience.

 

Outside, Knights and squire fought against one another for the entertainment of the crowd, hoping for a sit at the Round Table. But in the shadow of the King's pavilion, the fiercest battle had taken place. And Charles had won.

 

 

*****

 

Raven looked up at the young man who was defending her. Her brother. The reason for her mother's misery and eventually her death.

He had a power too. She had heard his voice in her head, lips closed and throat unmoving. What more could he do with his twisted gift ? Had he forced the Knights to bow ? Those men of power and fortune, who were not afraid of dying, a sword in their hand, had chosen to lay their weapon and to obey a boy of eighteen. Was he controlling every citizen in his kingdom ? And no one could even imagine what he was capable of. His curse was completely invisible.

He had been born a sorcerer, a wizard. A freak like her. And yet he had become King of Britain, the most powerful man in the Kingdom – maybe with the help of his terrifying skill. While her own magic had brought her the loss of her father and mother, and the promise of a most certain death at the hand of the King.

He was beautiful, and fierce, and confident. His figure towered above her, a large shadow against the shine of his sword. He was standing between her and the men who wanted her dead, but she was not afraid of them. Life could offer her nothing of worth. She had lost her family, her name, her home, and most of all her safety – when she had shown her blue skin and her red hair, for the sake of another abomination, of her brother. But he had protected her, condemning her to more pain and sorrow.

 

She hated him. She was going to make him pay for her misery.

 

 

*****

 

What if he had pushed against his Knights' minds ? What if he had sent them a reassuring wave of ' _you can trust me_ ' ? It was for the good of the Kingdom, and for his newly discovered sister's. Surely it was a good thing.

Was it not ?

 

 

*****

 

The room of the Round Table was nothing like any other war room. The ceiling was high and the windows large, opening on a colorful garden of roses and daffodils and irises. On the wall hung delicate tapestries of light hues. Not war scenes or hunts. They were pious images of saints and angels, and representations of myths and legends. Unicorns ran after terrible beasts with scaly skin. The peaceful face of a cherub floated above the figure of a dying King. Inspiring and calm, so were the scenes adorning the white walls of the large room.

At its center, the table that gave it its name, carved in the dark wood of a hundred-year-old oak, was imposing and indestructible. The chosen Knights sat around it, proud of their situation. Charles was among them, but posed as their equal. The Round Table stood as an example of democracy : they made decisions together, and no voice sounded louder than the others, not even the King's.

One chair remained empty, at Charles' right hand. So had decided King Xavier before him, and Charles followed his instructions – knowing they came from the Great Wizard Shaw and dreading what sorrow it would bring to his Kingdom. This empty chair was supposed to be that of the greatest knight that ever walked the ground of the Holy Kingdom of Britain. Beautiful, kind, generous, brave, courteous and loyal. A King who lived like a humble peasant. A man loved by many but who loved only one. A Knight who would choose negociation over battle, even though his sword was deadly. A loving son without parents.

Charles half-understood those statements. The man he was waiting for seemed to be a walking contradiction. And yet, he was waiting impatiently. Waiting for a miracle or a disaster, he did not know.

 

Anything but the sour smell of satisfaction and greed floating around him. It pervaded every thoughts or decisions.

"We should conquer the lands north of Hadrian’s Wall. Saxons and Picts raid our fields at least twice a month and our people are dying."

' _They have lost everything and I cannot collect more taxes to pay for my new castle._ '

"Our defenses are not enough. We need more soldiers on our walls, in our turets."

' _I do not want to go to war if I can help it. I will be just as safe in my fortified mansion._ '

"I suggest that we welcome the chief of that tribe at our Round Table. He is brave and generous."

' _The man has given me his beautiful daughter in payment._ '

If the decisions were not all that terrible, the circumstances leading to their existence remainded despicable. Charles was ashamed to be surrounded by narrow minds and selfishness when he felt the opposite. And in the context of the equality of all Knights around the Round Table, his voice was but a whisper. He represented the people's voice, and yet he was unheard. Charles guessed it was the exact purpose of the Round Table as Shaw had wanted it : to drown the soul and the heart of the Kingdom in the vile waters of corruption.

 

They talked for hours and hours and, surprisingly, the decrees made that day ended up fair and thoughtful. Charles refused to even imagine that he had unconsciously bent the minds of his fellow companions, but he could not swear it had not happened. Doubt and guilt gnawed at his guts.

They all left the room in a hurry at the end of the meeting. All except Charles, who sat at the empty table and looked outside for what felt like hours. He did not hear Moira tip-toe behind him. She put her hands on his eyes and murmured in his ear : "Can you guess who it is ?"

 

Her affection was the balm he needed to heal the wounds to his faith in humanity. He had married her a fortnight after his coronation, making her the most powerful lady in all Britain. Powerful, she was certainly. She must be when she served as the plush pillow on which he could lay his head at the end of the day. There was magic in her words and her hands. Maybe she had a Gift as well. The Gift of love.

Charles sighed, then smiled. She would never know that he had no desire for her, only a brotherly love. Not the kind of love a young and beautiful woman of sixteen dreamed of. He hoped he could make up for the lack of romance, taking care of her as the most precious person in his life. He kissed her fingers tenderly.

Raven occupied the second place in his heart. She had come to live with him in Westchester, in order for him to protect her – and because he wanted to have his last alive relative by his side. But he had not seen her as often as he would like. She did not come to the grand hall to eat with Charles and Moira and mostly kept to her room. Charles would check on her, spreading his mind through the white castle to reach for her. With a tentative lick of his power, he would assure himself she was well, if not happy, but never probed any further. He had enough of terrible feelings assaulting his mind on a daily basis to not seek more.

 

Which reminded him of Moira's tender touch on his face. He leaned into her embrace. "Good day, sweet Moira." She laughed and jumped in front of him, taking his hands in hers.

"Enough with your duty, your Grace. We are going for a walk in the garden." He opened his mouth to turn her down, but she put a delicate palm on his lips. Without the Gift that troubled him so much, Moira was still able to guess his thoughts with a terrifying accuracy. "You need some fresh air. And the day is bright and warm." She was right. He could feel the hot caress of the sun through the high windows.

"I may need to spend some good time with my beautiful wife," he said, standing up. He squeezed her right hand in his and led her through the castle to the garden. They walked in silence, enjoying each other's presence and sharing a peaceful moment.

 

Charles was picking a rose to put in Moira's hair when a sudden hot flash burned through his skull. He froze for half a second. A man driven by anger and revenge coming their way, at the castle's gate even. Vibrating intensely around the scabbard of his sword, something there reacting with his body.

Charles reached to the guards at the gate and let him pass – him and the cold void accompagnying him. Dressed in all white – breeches and tunic and cape – and sat upon a white stallion, the man looked beautiful and fierce. And although his thoughts were painful to Charles, they were pure, unstained – where Charles was so used to mixed feelings, guilt and shame hiding hate and fear behind their black wings.

Behind him, a woman in white too, with long blond hair flowing in the wind. When Charles tried to touch her mind, he found nothing but the hardness and coldness of diamond. She smiled at him, as if she knew what he had done.

They came to them – to him, since Moira, sweet and sensible Moira, feeling that something was amiss, had retreated back to the other end of the garden, watching over her husband from afar. The woman dismounted at his feet, and curtsied. "Your Grace, may I introduce myself. I am the Lady of the Lake, and here is my son, the White Knight. We spent many days on horseback to pay homage to you."

At the mention of her son, the beautiful young man got down his stallion and knelt respectfully while his bright mind kept burning Charles'. A pain he was willing to endure. "I thank you both." With a wave of his hand, he invited them to stand up.

"I come with a message. From the Great Wizard Shaw," the Lady of the Lake added.

Charles suppressed a shiver.

"My son is to sit at your Round Table, at the place King Xavier must have left empty. He is the finest Knight in the Kingdom."

 

As Charles looked at the man, at those blue-grey eyes, at those well-defined cheekbones, his heart swelled with unnecessary feelings. He had been right about Shaw's plan : the White Knight was a sign of impending doom. Because Charles was falling for him.

 

 

*****

 

In the White Castle's corridors, rumours of love spread, bouncing from wall to wall.

 

Raven, blue skin and red hair, naked as the day she was born, listened to them from inside her room. She had her revenge. Her brother would suffer as much as she had.

It was a promise.


	7. The Perilous Quest - Part One: It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be in many parts, so every part will appear as a new chapter.
> 
> Thanks to [euphorbic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic) for betaing it. All remaining mistakes are mine.

"Once upon a time, the world was young and dangerous. The only rule was survival of the fittest or, most of the time, the strongest. Angels of death roamed the Earth, harvesting women and men and children, the weak and the sick, leaving the fierce and the cunning to compete for the limited resources. Among them was one fiercer and smarter than all. But he had a secret.

"He was Gifted.

"Some say he could create fire with his hands, some say he could make crops grow higher and faster, and some say he could speak to animals. Whatever his Gift was, it became extremely valuable. He took seven wives and when the head of a nearby tribe decided that he fared far too well all seven were heavy with child.

" His assailant ambushed him with his most ferocious warriors. They cut the Gifted man’s throat and collected his blood in a golden cup. They all drank of it, hoping it would give them his strength.

"We do not know what happened to them. All we know is that his wives found new husbands and gave birth to healthy children, some boys, some girls : all of them Gifted like their father. They begat children, and their children begat children too. Some of them were Gifted, some of them were not."

She paused and stared at Charles determinedly. "We also know the cup is hidden somewhere in Britain and that it will give amazing power to whoever possesses it. A power that could, say, help the Gifted of our time and give them the equality they deserve."

That was the tale the Lady of the Lake told him.

 

Emma – that was her name, he plucked it out of her head – had some sort of mind power not unlike his own. He could not find out more about it. There was a cold and hard feeling when he tried to penetrate her mind, he did not know what it meant. The Lady of the Lake was a mystery draped in white, but she did not conceal the reason she came to him.

"You must look for the cup, Your Grace. You must find the Holy Grail. That is Great Wizard Shaw's prophecy. And my son is to help you in your quest."

The White Knight took a step forward and bowed. "I am delighted to be at your service, King Charles. My name is..." He winced and hissed, bringing his hand to his temple, as though something had pierced his head. "... to remain unknown for now. I will be the White Knight until the time has come." He stared at his mother, waves of anger coming off him.

She added : "He is Gifted too. Show him, my son." The mysterious man took his sword out of his sheath and to Charles’ amazement it began to float in front of himself. Then, with a barely visible move of his hand, the sword shot to a nearby tree and its blade plunged in the trunk like a knife in a block of butter.

Charles was amazed despite himself, rendered speechless. He shook himself out of his daze. "You said he is a Gifted too. Who else..."

"I am, as you well know. As are you."

"I am not..."

"Yes, you are. I felt you in my head." _'And now you can feel me in yours,'_ she added smugly and with a bright smile on her face.

"You and my son are going to search for the Holy Grail, as Shaw has prophetized. And I do not care what you will tell the humans you keep in your company, but they will not hinder your quest. So be it." Upon those words, she climbed on her horse and left Westchester forever.

 

*****

 

All the Knights and Kings were seated around the Round Table when Charles entered the room, looking regal in his grey pants and blue velvet doublet, a circlet of gold on his curly brown hair. He walked to two empty chairs sitting together and placed his hands on the back of one chair to give himself support and encouragement. He cleared his throat.

"Good Sirs, friends, I am honored to welcome the finest Knight in my Kingdom, he who was announced by Shaw when the Wizard asked my father, King Xavier, to build this table. He will sit by my side. Please welcome the White Knight, son of the Lady of the Lake."

The White Knight walked to Charles in his bright white outfit, not looking at any of the men sitting around the Table. He took his place next to Charles, and they both sat in the heavy silence that filled the room.

"I asked you to come today to launch an important quest. You already know the Picts are fighting us at Hadrian's Wall. Beyond the sea, war is raging between Clovis' sons and I fear one of them will want to conquer the Holy Kingdom of Britain. We must defend our land. The Great Wizard Shaw has sent me the Lady of the Lake and her son with a message : somewhere in Britain is a cup that could give us the power to defeat our many enemies. We are to find this cup, this Holy Grail."

Charles sighed after giving his speech. Politics had been the only reason he could come up with to motivate Kings and Knights to look for a hidden empty cup. Considering the intense worry he could feel in the room, he was probably right.

 

However, some had questions.

"How could an old cup help us ?" King Lot of Orkney asked. It was his habit to mistrust Charles even when he suggested sound propositions. He could not let something so uncertain and magical pass.

"Where is it ?"

"How do we find it ?"

 

But in the middle of those subtle objections and reticence, motivated voices rose.

"My people are tired of fighting and dying. We could use some divine help."

"If Shaw wants us to find it, we should do it. He has never failed us," Sir Caradoc added.

 

Dissension was not always a bad thing. Charles could manipulate them without even using his gift. He winced at the prospect. With or without Gift, he felt guilty playing with the lives and thoughts of others. But what else could he do ? He did not particularly want to obey Shaw, but if he could save Gifted from persecution and oppression – if he could protect his sister from the hate of humans – maybe it was worth it.


	8. The Perilous Quest - Part Two: Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be in many parts, so every part will appear as a new chapter.
> 
> Thanks to [euphorbic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic) for betaing it. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Charles sat alone in his room, watching the sun set through the high windows. He could feel the strong radiations of his sister's mind somewhere around the garden. The soft heart of his wife sent waves of love to him from inside their shared room. He did not dare going further in their heads. He felt lonely, but he would rather have them away from his gloomy mood.

  
  


They all agreed on the quest. It took time and many arguments, but all the best Knights and Kings of the Kingdom, those deemed worthy of the Round Table, had seen some reward in the prospect. Money, glory, peace... Charles refused to dwell further on his companions' sins and graces. He was not innocent, either. He had lied. Actually, he had been lying since he was three. Hiding his power. Hiding from himself.

He feared his power. It made him look at a world he despised, all flaws and imperfections, when he only wished to have faith in humanity. Faith in a world that would accept his Gift and that of his sister. And many others ; he knew for sure now that they were not alone. Shaw, the Lady of the Lake. And the White Knight.

  
  


Just when he thought of the man, he appeared at the door.

"May I come in, Your Grace ?" he asked.

"Of course. Take a seat."

The White Knight walked to him ; he had something under his arm.

"What is this ?" Charles pointed at the wooden board and the black box.

The White Knight set them on the table next to Charles and sat in front of him. "Do you know how to play chess ?"

The game had been introduced recently to his Kingdom and was played in many courts already. Moira, fond of strategy, had taught him the basis.

"I do," Charles answered. He picked up the box and emptied the pieces on the board. He chose black, leaving the white to his Knight. "But are you not afraid of me cheating with my..." He waved his fingers next to his temple.

"I trust you," the White Knight replied.

The honesty of his statement rendered Charles speechless.

  
  


"I have met with several people of my kind. Of our kind," the Knight said, arranging the pieces on the board. "The first I met, of course, was my mother, who is not my mother."

The revelation startled Charles. "Are you related to Shaw then ?"

"No. They both took care of me after a terrible human killed my real parents because I was a Gifted." He moved a pawn. "I want revenge, and for that I need the Holy Grail." He crossed his arms and waited for Charles' move. "I will follow you until we find it. Or until I die."

Charles felt the anger coming in waves from the White Knight. It numbed his mind, drowning it a little more with each ripple. "Revenge will not bring your parents back."

"It will not, that is true, but it will keep other Gifted from losing their parents too."

The man had a point, but there was something in his stance that scared Charles. "Do you mean to use the Grail to hurt humans ?"

The Knight froze, considering his answer. Then he spoke. "They do not hesitate to kill us. To enslave us. Why should we be considerate ?"

Charles' stomach churned at the lack of empathy shown by the Knight. "Because you would be no better than them ! How can you expect equality and respect if you scare and murder them ? That cannot be." Charles moved a pawn on the chess board. "The Holy Grail will serve as a way to reconciliate humans and Gifted," he added in a firm voice.

A frown appeared on the White Knight's brow, but he spoke no more. Charles could still feel the rage in his Knight's heart, and he knew he had not convinced him. He could only hope he would simply obey.

  
  


They played chess in silence until the sun had disappeared behind the hills.

  
  


*****

  
  


When Charles joined his wife in their bed, he lay down thinking for a long time. Moira was beautiful, smart, gentle. The best Queen he could have hoped for. And yet having her naked beside him did nothing to him. He wanted to protect her, to hold her – mostly to get comfort instead of giving it – but he did not feel the love singers sang about. But this evening, when he had played and talked with the White Knight, something had awoken in him. His heart had fluttered. His palms had sweated. And since then, his cock had been stiff and leaking. It bothered him under the covers.

He turned toward his wife and spooned her, his hard cock rubbing against her buttocks. It felt good. She woke up and turned around, smiling.

"Let me take care of that, dear Charles," she whispered, wrapping her fingers around his shaft. It scared him a bit, but he was too far gone for it to lower his desire. Her hand moved up and down and he started to moan.

  
  


After a few caresses, she sat on him and sighed as his cock entered her. He looked at her as she rode him like a horse. He looked at her small and firm breast bouncing lightly, at the strong muscles rippling in her thighs, under her smooth pale skin. He did not feel romantic love for Moira ; he did not feel desire for her, but he could admire her beauty and her skills in bed. He did not know where she learned such a trick, but right now, he felt too good to care. He soon helped her, moving in rhythm with her, his hands on her hips. It took him only a couple of minutes to come hard inside her. He spilled himself loudly, eyes closed, the perfect face of the White Knight against the dark screen of his eyelids.

As soon as he had emptied himself, she lay down by his side, still smiling. She kissed his cheek tenderly. "I love you, Charles," she whispered in his ear.

  
  


Those tender words heightened his feeling of guilt. He could not reciprocate them, when she deserved them and more. Instead, her attention had conjured the figure of someone else. Of a man.

He fell asleep crying.

  
  


*****

  
  


Raven had begun to keep mostly to her room, and that was where Moira found her, sitting on the windowsill, lost in thought as she looked at the surrounding woods. Moira knocked on the open door to let her know she was there. Raven turned towards her but did not say a word.

"Dear sister by human law and before God," Moira started, "I need to talk to you."

Raven nodded and showed her the bed. Moira thanked her with a curtsey and sat on the thick coverlet. "What is bothering you, your Grace ?"

"I... I did what you said. I made love to him..." A deep blush darkening her cheeks, she added : "Like a woman of easy virtue. You promised me he would love me more if I showed him my feelings for him." Tears welled up in her eyes. "Afterwards, I heard him cry."

Moira's distress did nothing to Raven, but she feigned sympathy. "I am sorry."

Hiding her tangled fingers inside her long sleeves, Moira mustered up all the courage she could find to reveal her biggest fear. "I think he loves someone else."

  
  


Inside, Raven was almost laughing. Only sweet and pure Moira did not know about Charles' feelings for his new companion. Maybe she just tried to deny it as much as she could to avoid being hurt. Ignorance was a bliss, Raven had learned years ago, and Moira would soon experience the same pain she had felt when she had discovered she had a brother her mother loved more than she had ever loved her.

Sometimes she felt guilt freezing her core, her very bones, a low grumble in her stomach. In Moira, she saw the little girl she once was, the one life had cheated. But she had to hurt her to get revenge on her brother. Moira's feelings were collateral damage. She chased away the regrets that threatened to drown her in sorrow.

Unbeknownst to Charles, Raven and Moira had been slowly bonding. Knowing well what happened in the bedroom of married couples – she had played this game so many times, using her Gift to hide in plain sight and spy on others – she had ill advised Moira, thinking that might, in one way or another, ruin her brother's marriage. She had been right.

  
  


She comforted Moira as well as she could and let her go when her tears were dried.

She had to prepare for the next part of her plan.

  
  


*****

  
  


For a week now, the White Knight had met King Charles for an evening game of chess in his room. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost, but every time they played was a pleasure. He knew what he felt must be hidden and denied ; there was no place for love in his quest for revenge. Unfortunately, the argument between his mind and his heart was nowhere near its end. Before their meeting, he would motivate himself to ignore the painful pang in his chest when Charles' beautiful eyes were on him. But once in the King's room, he could not follow his own smart advice.

  
  


Today, he was early : the room was empty when he came in. He sat at the table and placed the chess pieces on the board. He did not have long to wait.

"Dear friend, you are already here !" Charles took both Erik's hands in his, in a powerful grip, squeezing them strongly. "You cannot imagine the extent of the happiness these evenings together bring to me. Do they fill you with joy as well ?"

Erik, confused, could only nod. They always avoided touching, even when they played. As if it was their last protection, as if the world would burst into flames if their skins brushed against each other. And now, he could feel Charles' heat on his fingers, on his palm. It felt like the world was burning, actually. His world, and his heart. Did he only imagine the caress of Charles' thumb on his joints ? It was barely there. A butterfly's wing. And yet it brought goosebumps on his forearms.

When Charles finally let Erik's hands go, they felt cold. "Shall we play ?" he asked, knowing the answer too well.

  
  


They sat in front of each other, the black and white chess board between them. Charles seemed suddenly too far away. Was his smile brighter than usual ? His eyes warmer ? It may well be only the wish of his heart, but Erik was not so sure.

"Tell me more about your infanthood, dear friend." Charles' request took Erik by surprise. They had become intimate, but not to the extent of sharing secrets yet. However Erik trusted him, and started to talk about the cottage in the woods, about his training. About his loneliness too. Soon, the game was forgotten.

  
  


They moved from the table in the middle of the room to the more comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace which Charles' valet had lit when night had come. It was the only light in the room ; the flames projected shadows on Charles' face, his soft features moved and changed constantly. Those shadows mesmerized Erik, who spoke less and less, too fascinated to talk, until they both fell silent.

Erik started when Charles opened his mouth and whispered : "I like you." There was warmth in his voice, and admiration, and passion. It could not be just a figment of Erik's imagination. He looked at Charles, trying to decipher his expression. Charles was holding his hand out to him, reaching for him, but Erik dared not reciprocate. "Do you like me ?"

  
  


Erik was about to say something – anything, an excuse, an apology – but a loud gasp came from the hallway and interrupted him. Charles did not react to the sound – maybe Erik had imagined it – and waited for his answer. What could he say ? He looked at the fire, cheeks warm. Was it the flames, or was he burning with embarassement ? He decided not to dwell too much on this. He stood up suddenly.

"Excuse me." Without another word, he left the room. He walked briskly to his room, avoiding maids and valets. He did not want for them to see his shameful blush. Once his door closed, he whispered to no one : "Yes, I like you." He buried his face in the cup of his hands and sighed heavily.

  
  


*****

  
  


In the King's room, Charles' skin rippled like a tormented sea, deep blue like the bottom of the ocean. Alone and merry, Raven laughed.

  
  


*****

  
  


Back to her blond-hair-pink-cheeks form the next day, Raven was eating her breakfast alone in the long hall – it was fairly late in the morning and everyone had gone to their duties, but she had nothing to do – when Moira rushed in. Her puffy eyes and disheveled hair spoke volumes : Raven's plan had come together nicely. She played her part and stood up at once. "Dear sister, what happened ?"

"Oh Raven, I am the most unhappy creature in the Kingdom." Moira fell on her knees in front of Raven and cried in her lap.

Raven put a hesitant hand on her head, patting lightly, like her mother had done once. Neither care nor empathy had warmed her mother's palm, and Raven's was even colder. "Pray tell me what put you in such sorrow."

Moira looked up at her with her wet eyes, cheeks drenched in tears. "My dear husband is in love with his Knight. I saw him last night." She pulled on her long hair and her delicate velvet dress. "Look, look !" Almost hysterical, she grabbed her own breast with both hands. "How could I possibly compete ?"

"Poor sister," Raven said. She held out her hands, waiting for Moira to take them. She kissed her fingers with feigned deference. "I am afraid you cannot. There is only one thing you can and should do."

Hope sparkling in her eyes, Moira asked : "What is it ? I beg you to tell me now, or I should die at once."

"You must preserve yourself. You ought to go back to your father, under the pretense that you miss him. Away from your husband, you may be able to find peace in your mind."

Moira stood up, thoughtful. She went back and forth. "But Charles needs me. How could I abandon him ?" She frowned. "But it is not me he needs." She stopped in front of Raven. "I will do as you say."

Being privy to Moira's thought process was sweet as a candy to Raven. Doubt, torment, resignation. "I will wait for you to come back, dear sister, as I will miss you very much." She kissed Moira's forehead. "Now go and tell my brother of your plan."

Moira nodded. "I shall." She left the long hall running.

  
  


Once alone, Raven shrugged and ate another spoon of porridge. It lacked honey ; it tasted bitter and salty on her tongue. Like tears and betrayal.

  
  


*****

  
  


Charles, sitting at the Round Table, was reading a heavy codex when Moira entered the room. The serious look on her face made him shiver. His wife was always so open and happy that such an expression aged her immensely. "Sweet Moira, what brings you here ?"

He saw the shadow of sadness and despair in her eyes before she answered. "I am leaving for Cameliard and my father's castle this afternoon, Charles." It seemed already too much for her, and she looked down at her feet, waiting for his reaction.

  
  


Surprise and fear fought for his heart. Had she discovered his secret – his secrets, to be true – and was leaving him ? Surely he was a terrible husband, but he had hoped to be a good friend. Because he loved her, her departure would leave an empty space beside him. One that, hopefully, the White Knight would fill. It was a thought he should not entertain at that moment. "Will you be away for long ?"

He must have said something right. She smiled at him. "I do not know yet."

"I will miss you, my love. My best Knights will accompany you, for your safety."

"Will the White Knight be among them ?"

Charles wondered why she would bring him in the conversation. "I will ask him if he wants to go." He stood up and walked to her. He kissed her on the lips, trying to convey all the affection he had for her.

When they broke the kiss, she curtsied briskly and left the room.

  
  


She was not gone for a minute when the White Knight knocked on the door. "May I come in ?"

Charles barely fought the happiness his Knight brought to him nowadays. Such a delicious and satisfying feeling was so seldom in Westchester that he did not dare chase it away. His love was his comfort in this dire place where everyone plotted for their own benefit, forgetting about their holy mission. He, as the King, had not forgotten, and the mere presence of this beautiful and deadly creature – the White Knight – motivated him every day. Why would he deny it at this moment, when his wife before God was leaving him. "Of course, my friend."

The Knight nodded and entered the room, staying at a respectable distance from his sovereign. His attitude surprised Charles greatly, but he said nothing. He observed him from afar. The way his eyes shifted when they fell on him inadvertently. The shield of his crossed arms. The brief looks at the door as if he wanted nothing more than leave, when he had been the one who asked to come in.

"What brings you to my door ?" Charles asked.

In a low rumble, the Knight answered : "I have a favor to ask."

"Please, ask."

"I have stayed long enough now." He sounded like he was about to flee. "I want to commit to the quest you assigned us. I shall leave tomorrow, if you allow me."

  
  


Despair wrapped Charles in its awful stench, filling his nose, his eyes, his head. His heart. Was everybody going to leave him ? Like Antor and Aenor had given him to Shaw. Like his real mother and father had rather die than meet him. Like MacTaggert had left for his far away castle. Charles felt he was cursed : he would never know long and stable relationships, it seemed.

But he could not deny this legitimate request. The quest for the Holy Grail came before his own happiness. A king must forget himself for the benefit of his kingdom. "I will miss your company, dear friend, but you must do what you must. You have my blessing."

The White Knight bowed respectfully. "I thank you, Your Grace. I will find the Grail for the good of our brothers and sisters. I swear to you." In one swift motion, he turned around and disappeared in the hallway. Charles was left feeling more alone than he had ever felt before.

But he had to endure, as was expected from a King.

  
  


He dried the tears that threatened to roll down his cheeks with the back of his hand, cleared his throat, and decided to go for a walk. He could not stay near the Round Table : it was a symbol of equality, loyalty and companionship and all those things seemed to elude him.

He closed the codex and left the room.

 


	9. The Perilous Quest - Part Three: The Maiden With Short Sleeves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be in many parts, so every part will appear as a new chapter.
> 
> Thanks to [euphorbic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic) for betaing it. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Erik had not thought it through. His need to stay away from the King had clouded his mind. Of course it remained imperative to find the Holy Grail, and in order to achieve that quest, he had to travel far away, to wander and search for hints. But while his journey with Emma had been pleasant, this one was anything but. No place to stay, no food to eat. The ground was hard and fruits and berries sparse. It reminded him of his journey to Claudas' castle, and many more bad memories. He shivered.

  
  


After two days on horseback, Erik reached a small town. High grey walls surrounded it and separated deserted cottages from the town’s inhabitants. The main entrance was closed.

Erik knocked. A trembling voice answered him from behind the thick wooden panel. “Give us your name, and we shall decide if you are allowed to come in.”

Erik was perplexed. What should he do? He had no name to offer that was not a secret.

“I am the son of the Lady of the Lake.”

After a few seconds, the voice spoke again: “We know no Lady of the Lake. What is your affair with our town?”

It was much more difficult than Erik had thought. He was not even sure if a real bed and a hot meal were worth the effort. “I am just a traveler and I ask for a good night of rest inside your walls,” he finally replied.

“We cannot grant you your request, good sir. You shall go your way.” And the voice went silent.

Erik could not believe his bad luck. He did not even have the time to ask for the next inn or the nearest village. That meant another night on the ground and another cold meal of wild vegetables and roots. He was starting to miss Westchester. And Charles.

  
  


As he turned around, ready to leave, a childish voice called for him. “Wait! Wait! Do not leave yet, sir!” A pretty young girl with long blond hair was looking down at him from the ramparts. Her green velvet dress was sleeveless and at Erik’s distance, the pale skin of her arms looked like white porcelain.

“Who is calling me?” Erik asked.

“I am the youngest daughter of the lord of this town, and I am known as the Maiden with Short Sleeves.” The girl curtsied, although Erik was unable to see it from his place. The golden crown of her hair hid her pretty face and the polite smile on her lips.

“And why should I stay, Maiden, when I cannot even enter your town?”

“The reason you cannot enter is the same for asking you to stay.”

The young girl seemed smart and well educated in spite of her age. Erik’s interest was piqued. “What is that reason, young Maiden?”

“An evil wizard ransoms my Father, threatening to collapse every house of the town with his magic if we refuse to give him a chest full of golden coins and jewels. As we do not know who you are, you may work for him. We cannot take the risk of you betraying us in the middle of the night.”

  
  


Erik felt a sudden surge of hatred towards the malevolent man who could compel a whole town into closing its doors and keeping strangers at bay. His sword was pulsing with energy in its sheath. “I still do not know why I should stay.”

“If you can defeat the wizard, we will let you stay inside our walls and you will obtain a great reward,” the Maiden with Short Sleeves replied, before disappearing behind the crenellations.

That sure was a quest, perilous quest even, and Erik had a Holy Grail to find.

However, he thought of the Maiden’s young face and Charles' words of compassion came back to him. If he was able to let her endure a painful death he was no better than a murderer, and Erik was no murderer – of the innocent, at least. He would find and fight the wizard.

  
  


As Erik walked through the abandoned cottages, he soon understood why their owners had left them: the roofs were collapsed and walls crumbled. The further away he was from the walled town, the more broken were the houses.

Finally he came to an habitation far more habitable than the others, if a little shabby. The place was also in a comfortable distance from the rest of the village. The owner was probably an outcast, but there was light pouring from the window, meaning Erik could ask questions and possibly obtain answers. He knocked at the door and waited.

A young man with wavy long hair and dark intense eyes opened the door and stared at him silently. Erik stared back, waiting for an indication that the man was able to communicate.

  
  


After they had both been quiet for several long seconds, Erik decided to at least be polite. “Good day to you, sir. I was wondering if you could help me find the evil wizard who threatens this town.”

Nothing on the young man’s face showed that he had even understood what Erik had said. He stared more, before finally replying: “Come in.” An abrupt answer if Erik could say so, but he followed him into the humble home nonetheless.

  
  


The house was as shabby inside as it was outside. The ground was made of soil and the walls were bare of any kind of decoration. In the middle of the only room of the cottage, there was a table and only one chair. The mattress lay directly on the ground. The owner did not seem to receive visitors very often.

With a sign, the young man invited Erik to sit on the chair, and he himself took a crate to sit on. More silence followed until the young man finally opened his mouth. "I am the man you are looking for."

Erik unsheathed his sword at once, but an invisible force threw him against the wall with the chair, which exploded on the stone. It was like a strong gust of wind had suddenly entered the house and pushed him. But that was not possible, was it ? Ears still ringing from the impact, Erik looked at the man, suspicious. He was staring at Erik without surprise, a hand stretched out, palm open. He was probably a Gifted too, but what kind of power had God thought reasonable to give to this quiet man ?

Determined to fullfill the promise he had made to the Maiden with Short Sleeves, Erik used his own Gift to send his sword straight to the wizard's heart. To Erik's amazement, a tiny tornado appeared in the man's palm, growing faster and faster until it almost touched the ceiling. When Erik's sword hit the tornado, it swirled widly inside it and escaped from the top. It flew towards the door and stuck into it with force. "What a terrible Gift !"

  
  


Taken aback, the wizard looked at Erik suspiciously.

Erik got up and brushed the seat of his pants. "Is it the reason for your behavior ?" He had nothing to sit on, therefore he stood in the middle of the room.

The man closed his hand in a strong fist. "I am a force of destruction. They fear me. They hate me." He hit the table with his fist. "I will make them pay !"

Now that the man had spoken several words, Erik noticed his accent. "Where do you come from ?"

"My family comes from Barcelona. They fled the city when it was conquered by the Arabs. When they arrived in Britain, they did not know the language, and were mocked and rejected. We kept to ourselves. This hole," he motioned at the house. "has been ours since my great-grandfather built it. Sometimes there were ten people living here." He got up and walked to the remnants of his chair. He picked up the pieces, one by one, and threw them in the fireplace.

Imagining so many people sharing such a small space made Erik dizzy with anger. Humans were awful creatures, and he did not understand why Charles wanted to save them all.

  
  


The wizard kept telling his story. "I discovered my power quite late. At that time, only my mother was still alive, and she died not long after." He turned towards Erik. "I have been a pariah my whole life because I am a foreigner. I decided to punish those who had hurt my family, and me, with my hurricanes. And now, I shall take gold and jewels from them and find myself a new place to live."

Erik felt the man had a right to what he claimed. Some wealth for all the suffering his family had endured. But the law – human law – and Charles' morality prevented Erik to join him in his revenge. "What is your name, sir ?"

"Janos. Janos Quested," the man answered.

Erik tried to think of what Charles would say in his situation. "Janos, if you carry out your plan, you will create a new cycle of pain and revenge. Do you not want to be free ?"

A deep frown hardened Janos' face. "How could it be ? Freedom is just a word. My power is my curse, my penance. I will never be free because of it, but at least, wealth can bring me peace."

"It will not," Erik replied, shaking his head. "But I know of a place where you will find happiness."

"Pray, tell me more."

  
  


Charles would never accept a ruthless murderer who did not regret his actions. Janos had to make amends. "If you apologize to the Maiden with Short Sleeves, I will take you with me to Westchester. It is a safe place for Gifted."

Janos considered the offer for an instant in silence. Then he walked to his bed, put his meager possessions on it and rolled the raggedy sheet around them. "I am ready to go," he finally said.

  
  


They walked through the deserted village side by side without a word, until they reached the city's gate. Erik knocked on the door and he recognized the voice of the guard who had answered him before. "Give us your name, and we shall decide if you are allowed to come in.”

"It is I, the son of the Lady of the Lake. I have returned with the wizard you were looking for. He wants to apologize to the Maiden."

As soon as he had said her name, her voice came from the crenellations above him. "I am listening. I am ready to accept his confession in the name of my father."

  
  


Erik turned towards Janos just in time to see him create a hurricane in front of him, hands stretched out and a mischievous smile on his lips. Understanding what was happening, Erik stepped away and hid behind a collapsed wall.

With a wave of his hand, Janos sent the hurricane, now the size of a tall tree, against the gate. Stones groaned and wood cracked under the pressure, sounds almost covered by the whistling of the wind. Soon the walls and door started to crumble, while screams came from the top of the ramparts, from soldiers falling – maybe to their death.

Helpless, Erik watched as another tornado wrapped itself around a laughing Janos. It took off through the streets, leaving more destruction on its path.

  
  


When the wind died down, Erik ran towards the broken down gate. "Maiden ! Maiden !" he shouted, moving stones and splintered boards. Sometimes, he found body parts of soldiers. The horror of the situation made him shiver. He finally found the Maiden with Short Sleeves unconcious on a haystack, stuck under a large metal beam. There was only one way to save her.

Focussing on the metal, he used his powers to lift it. When it first shifted, the Maiden awakened in pain. She stared at Erik while he moved the beam higher and higher, palms open and muscles tense. Fear crept into her pale irises. Clearly injured, she still crawled away from Erik as soon as she could.

Erik threw away the piece of metal and stepped towards the young girl. "Are you okay, Maiden ?"

She stopped him with a furious glare. "Do not come near me, monster. You are no better than the evil wizard who made this happen. You brought him to us. You failed your mission and are responsible for all this deaths."

"But..." Erik tried to defend himself.

The Maiden turned her head with contempt. "You shall not get the reward that was promised to you. I want you to leave and never appear again in front of me."

Defeated, Erik bowed. "As my Lady wishes."

He turned around and left, as several maids and soldiers rushed to help their princess.

  
  


Erik walked for many miles, thinking about what had happened. Of course, Janos had done something despicable. But was he not within his rights, if in the end, humans were going to hate the Gifted ? Erik wanted to believe in Charles' world but he feared it was only an unreachable utopia.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation of the poem:
> 
> A long time ago in the prosperous land of Britain  
> A child was born with power upon metal.  
> His name is Erik, and for the Wizard Shaw,  
> He had to lead the Gifted and clear their honor.  
> Raised by Emma, white Lady of the Lake,  
> Helped by Charles, the virtuous monarch,  
> He goes off in search of adventure, in search of the Holy Grail,  
> To ward off bad luck, to pursue his ideals,  
> And save the Gifted from the Lords’ yoke.  
> But is this really his final desire?  
> EDIT: explanation of the title: Geste, short for Chanson de Geste, is an old kind of epic poem, and Beau Trouvé is the name the Lady of the Lake gives to Lancelot before he can find his real name in the original story. For those wondering about the meaning of the title and coming back with weird translations from Google :)


End file.
